


1,300 Feet Per Second

by Embleer_Frith0323



Series: Carry Me [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Killing Joke (Comics), DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Awkward Romance, Blood and Violence, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Family Issues, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It Will Be Okay, Oops, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Child Abuse, Revenge, Slow Build, Suppressed Feelings, Tragedy, Upheavals, Vengeance-Seeking, some torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-10-26 01:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 192,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embleer_Frith0323/pseuds/Embleer_Frith0323
Summary: Artemis is no stranger to bumps in the road. But this time, she has help, and a real shot at lasting happiness, even if a budding romance with her deceased fiancé's best friend might be on the complicated side. However, when her father’s crimes spill over into her new life with Dick, her newfound joy is threatened by a serious upheaval. As the saying goes, there will be a reckoning--one long overdue, and that risks all she's built, her relationships with friends and family, and even her understanding of herself.





	1. 9-4-19

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! <3 ^_^
> 
> I've been plowing through this at about the same rate as the title suggests. So although things are crazy busy, I'm going to go ahead and start posting!
> 
> Enjoy my first attempt at a (sorta) romance story. :-)
> 
> Many, many thanks to Chibi_Nightowl for being the most awesome beta in the whole world, and the best thing to happen to my writing in a LONG time. Equally, special credit to Zoeleo, for planting the seed of this idea in my brain. <3 And finally, much love to Libraryman85, the greatest brainstormer and story consultant that ever walked the earth. <3 
> 
> Love to all! <3 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo  
> ~EF <3

_September 4, 2019_

  
  


_Dick,_

_I can’t really say I’ve ever considered myself to be much of a letter-writer. The closest I’ve ever come to that was a bunch of marathon emails between me and this chick in France I met online through a fandom board. But, circumstances being what they are, I guess I’d better tap into my inner Virginia Woolf and get cracking on some stream-of-consciousness drivels. Memories are super important, here, apparently, in this particular situation, although I wonder which ones between you and me we’d consider to be the really pivotal ones. So I guess I’ve kind of been in the process of compiling stuff to toss at you when I see you next, be that important stuff, stupid stuff, the kind of crap that most people ignore or get legit straight-up irritated by when you pester them at the checkout line at the grocery store with it. I’m actually starting to get like, HYPER-aware of things to file away for later to share with you anymore, even dwelling on goofy stuff like how Earth Fare smells better than Wal-Mart and that’s the Number One Reason I started shopping there on the reg, to hell with the higher prices. One of those little bits of totally innocent, tangible evidence that you’re a Wayne stipendiary — you were always one of those that actively avoided “the Dark Lord Waldemart,” as you called it. Ah, to be able to afford to be political… See, and there I go, off on a tangent of questionable importance. And I’m supposed to be focusing on Pivotal Moments. (Capitalized, proper noun.)_

_But… when you think about it, the significance of those little anecdotes are kind of subjective, aren’t they — like all those little, seemingly trivial stories about mommyhood that an exhausted (and probably neglected) new mother dumps ad nauseam on the next person in line might seem incomprehensibly stupid to the listener, but are super exciting and of critical import to her. With that in mind, I’ve made it a point these days to listen to every person who wants to make small talk with me when I’m out in public._

_I know, prickly, tsun-tsun Artemis, who hated small talk and generally measured at about a -15 on a 1-10 People Tolerance scale and got flat-out RUDE at times when strangers attempted to chat me up… Who’da thunk, eh? Ha ha, that whole small talk thing only got worse when you were around — you’ve always just DRAWN people to you. Human magnetism? I guess it never hurt that you were ridiculously hot, though, not to mention super friendly with ever-freaking-everybody. :P I think we have the life stories of every single cashier, server, sales associate, and maintenance/housekeeping staff member we ever came across together. Meanwhile, as you maintained that easy smile and talked away (again, painfully easily) with everyone who assaulted you with small talk, I just got more and more impatient and practically melted into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West in the background. Don’t even get me started on those society things I got roped into going to with you. Not only did you draw people, you drew every camera in the room._

_It was annoying as fuck then. It’s cute as hell now, looking back on it. How is THAT possible?_

_Anyway, bottom line, who knows what will really prove to be the MOST IMPORTANT OF THE THINGS when we talk next. Maybe some memory or event I think is dumb will stick in your craw as the coolest thing ever, and maybe something I think is the bee’s knees will just fall totally flat (kind of like when you talked up that one scene in Spongebob when Squidward choked on the fork as the funniest goddamn thing you ever saw, and I watched it, and then looked at you, and then watched it again, all the while waiting for the punchline… except it never came. Remember that? Junior year for me, I think. And, very belatedly, I’m sorry, ha. At least we’ve always squared on our Hound fandom and will probably wind up going down together with our ship. SANDOR AND SANSA FIVE EVER! *sink*)_

_Speaking of memories…_

_I guess this whole kit and caboodle gained serious momentum with the Woodland Lights display, do you remember that? Oh, hell, I’m sure you do. You’re a detective, arguably the best hacker in literally the universe, and a math whiz — you have your weaknesses (I have to say that, you know, just because), a faulty memory ain’t one of them. :P I just have this weird tendency to assume that something emotionally significant to me might not be as important or memorable to the person I share it with and as such, approach accordingly. It’s a habit I exhibit from time to time, this sort of… “push people away before they abandon you” thing, and have, over the years, TRIED to rid myself of. Recent events have reminded me of its benefits, but that’s a conversation for another day._

_Anyway, when we paused by the pond, a little ways off from and out of sight of the others, and you kissed me, that, right there, THAT was a Moment. That’s when I knew it had really, truly CHANGED between us, and was going to continue to, the other facets of the situation that would render change inevitable aside. I got so hopeful in that moment that everything would be okay in spite of my obstinate belief to the contrary that I busted up and started crying mid-mango like a total moron. Ha ha, that must have sucked some serious balls for you — you kiss a chick, like, woo, score! and halfway through, as things are heating up, she just up and starts bawling. No finer WTF moment than that… amirite?? I remember you asking what was wrong, what you did, was it that bad — ha ha, when you asked, “Oh, God, are the Tic-Tacs not working? I have Altoids, even a straight freaking onion bomb couldn’t overpower those mint-cendiaries!” THAT’S when I cracked up and wound up in bouts of hormonal hysterics that flip-flopped between crying and laughing like an emotional Sybil. That AGONIZING PAINFUL STUPID play on words reminded me of why I’ve always adored you, you freaking troll, even when you annoy the crap out of me and I just want to stuff your used gym socks in your mouth and jam duct tape over them (and not in the fun way.)_

_So… you ended up hugging me in the end, remember? I definitely do — you laid your hand on the back of my head, kissed my hair, stroked my back, and it all made me feel simultaneously better and worse. I had no idea how you’d react to what I wanted — NEEDED — to tell you later, and I didn’t want to ruin that moment. It was so nice, Dick. SO nice. Apart from that night we got shitfaced and jerked each other off in a room full of people and wound up knocking boots in your apartment later, I hadn’t been held like that in years, pushing away all overtures, declining most contact after Wally died and the initial shock faded. I didn’t want to be touched by then — it was like I was constantly on sensory overload, and even the smallest, most innocent touches about sent me over the edge. It wasn’t until you touched me that night that I realized I NEEDED it, how touch-deprived I really was, and how just… how amazing it felt, how plumb-freaking-good it was to be touched, held by someone I loved and cared about, and most importantly, who not only fully, totally understood my pain, but SHARED it, too. And you were the ONLY ONE that never pushed me to put myself out there, rejoin the dating scene, start testing the waters again. You even SAID to take as much time as I felt I needed, that everyone grieves in their own way and on their own time, and only I could know when I was ready to take that step. That was months before the Mystical Orgasm Gateway, and I could have kissed you in that moment for saying that._

_Crazy to think I’d kiss you, after all… And that you’d be that step in the end._

_I didn’t end up having to ruin that moment, because right about then, Lian did it for me when she found us, right as you kissed me again after I’d come off my sober crying jag. Roy and Jade followed, and if the jig wasn’t up prior to that, well, it sure as shit was up then. We TRIED leaping away from each other, but we might as well have spared ourselves the jolt in adrenaline and pathetic attempt at burning a calorie or two, because THEY SAW THE WHOLE THING. Tail end of that particular kiss included. Talk about your awkward moments regarding memories…_

_We ended up splitting off, me talking with Jade while holding Lian’s hand, an auntie move that reminded me of why I’d invited you along on this little family outing in the first place, and you talking with Roy, who was astonishingly insightful and supportive, as you told me later that evening. The lights display was kind of dimmed in the snow, the lampposts iced over, everything so soft under it all. It was just so beautiful, and although I was so scared in that moment, I couldn’t help but feel just stupid-happy, and I focused 100% on just coasting on that feeling until I had to ruin it for us later._

_Ruining it… We can talk about THAT one another time. I don’t want to overdo it, here, and pour too much onto one page. Ever see Scanners? Ha. Don’t want that, now, do we? Dear God, I’ve become M’gann. Save me, Dick!!_

… 

_Seriously._

_Until next time._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  



	2. 11-12-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many, many thanks to Chibi_Nightowl, the bestest beta in all the land. <3 
> 
> Much love! ^_^ <3 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo  
> ~EF <3

November 12, 2018

  
  


_Dick_

  
  


I watched the door to Artemis’ mom’s place shut behind her, leaving me (mostly) alone on the street. A shockingly judging thud resounded as it clicked all the way closed, as though it straight-up grunted an indictment at me. I frowned right back at its dour surface, and then turned to start walking along the pavement. 

“…Crap,” I muttered, watching my dorky shoes beat their way over the concrete. I kept my gaze there, nearly bumping into a streetlamp — again, Jesus… I guess at least it wasn’t the result of a completely demolished front walkover. I continued on to plow, ironically, into a stop sign, and _then_ into maybe ten different pedestrians that should have been nailed for impeding sidewalk traffic as I cut my blind, half-cocked path away from the apartment and my punishable misdeeds. 

I didn’t have a _clue_ where I was actually going, just that I wanted to get as far away from Artemis as possible until I could get my head on straight. I sure as hell wasn’t going home — not yet, not for a while, several hours at the _least._ I just couldn’t face my empty bed, knowing who’d slept in it the night before. 

_God damn it, you_ really _stepped in it this time, you stupid fucking idiot,_ I thought fiercely. _Captain Literal Dick, can’t keep his dumbass wang in the hangar, nope, not one bit…_

Christ, I hadn’t even bagged it — I was so drunk that the concept of a condom just went _poof,_ straight out of my skull like an actual brain fart. I knew we were both clean; Artemis’ partners had consisted of Wally, Wally, and Wally… oh, fuck-fuck-fuck, and vice-versa, and per Bruce’s obstreperous remonstrations I _never_ went in unwrapped — uh, until the night prior, anyway — and got tested “every six months I was sexually engaged” (thanks, Bruce, but — um, ew.) Artemis had assured me she was on the pill — I remembered _that_ very clearly, along with every single minute detail of the sex itself, down to the sweet, crisp scent that rose from her skin to the ball-busting squeal she issued as she came for the third time with her face pressed against mine, for all I was trashed beyond belief — so all bases covered, but that just wasn’t the _point._

It was just… 

It was _so_ disrespectful. And if there was one person I truly, wholeheartedly, fervently respected, it was the woman I’d just shot full of my DNA approximately sixteen hours earlier.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. _Stupid._

If I’d had my druthers, and if I’d known this would happen, I’d have given Artemis the proverbial royal treatment before I just up and violated her like that, whatever version of that royal treatment she might have wanted. I’d see to it. Archery tag, dinner at the palatial Rue Magnifique (an establishment I knew to be favored by none other than Lex Luthor, fun fact), a moonlit walk down a freaking beach, a dance-off on the moon at 1.622 m/s² gravity — whatever. There wasn’t a soul on this planet that didn’t deserve the royalest of all royal treatments more than Artemis did, however uncomfortable she might have been when she found herself on the receiving end of some pampering and spoiling. I’d always suspected that although she openly objected to receiving gifts or random acts of kindness or generosity, she secretly reveled in and appreciated them — something Wally confirmed. In this new, tenuous position I found myself, I delighted in the idea of just _showering_ her with gifts and randoms, knowing that for however tsun-tsun she got, she inwardly loved it, and also knowing that I made her feel _cared for,_ valued _._ A rarity in her life before Wally and Young Justice, I knew damn well. 

But… as it stood, I’d just gotten her drunk, taken her to a fucking orgasm class where I felt her tits and fingered her and she yanked on my cock in a room full of people, and then I’d brought her home and fucked her senseless and _come inside her_ — without even really properly asking first — on my apartment floor later. 

_So_ romantic. Textbook romance. I _really_ knew how to treat a lady, apparently. God. If anything, on the surface, on paper, those little date night choices just made me look like a literal dick. And feel like one. Making her coffee and buying her cinnamon rolls in the morning didn’t abrogate that.

Jeez. I already took enough shit for my bicycle status from the guys — they’d have a goddamn field day with this one, if it ever got out. And that was a whole different issue. 

Did I hide it, as though Artemis were something I ought to cover up in shame — for fuck’s sake, _she wasn’t,_ she was someone who, if circumstances were even a hair different, I’d _cherish_ and _treasure_ and _do absolutely everything I could for,_ and if there was just no baggage here, I’d be _dancing_ down this fucking street, swinging off the streetlamps, making like Fred Astaire in _Singin’ in the Rain_ in my post-coital joy, blissfully high off of infatuation (or was it more? _SHIT —_ all caps, in italics) — or did I inadvertently run the risk of making her the butt end of a locker room joke by not operating on zipped lips? It was bound to go one of two ways, neither of which was a desirable outcome: 1. The guys whooped riotously about it and congratulated me on my virility and charisma and patted me on the back for scoring with the deadly-hot Asian chick that would have stuck an arrow up Chris Hemsworth’s ass if even _he_ ever hit on her, so doubly go me for breaking through that impenetrable stone wall, or 2. The guys took me down to the creek and scrubbed me with wire brushes like this were a case for cowboy justice, a way to force atonement on me for my newfound purebred asshole status, achieved by fucking my dead best friend’s girlfriend. 

Frankly, just the _idea_ of one of my pals clapping my shoulder over my manly exploits extending to Artemis got my dander up sky high — I’d face team suspension wiping my shoes on whoever decided to reveal his douchebaggier side for talking about her like that.

I also felt that I’d hand the wire brushes to my more morally upright, bro code abiding friends. 

And while I understood that okay, it wasn’t like Artemis was bound to Wally forever and therefore not permitted to move on with her life as though we were trapped in some less romanticized version of the Old South, _I_ really shouldn’t have been the one she opted to test the waters with. It crossed a line not only with her, one that threatened the really beautiful and _rare_ sense of trust we had that I held far more dear than I realized, but with my deceased best pal, too. Whom I’d already fucked up _utterly_ by before he died. Or disappeared, or whatever. The least I could do would be to honor his memory, respect his life, value his legacy. And instead, just as I broke Artemis’ trust, I _defied_ Wally’s memory, and went way out of bounds where my relationships with them both were concerned. If I thought buying Artemis a miniskirt would ensure that Wally would fuck with my toilets from beyond the grave, I shuddered to consider what shooting his soon-to-be-fiancée full of spunk would have him do. How does one explain an ectoplasm upper decker to a maintenance man? And how does one explain to Dinah Lance, Insightful Shrink Extraordinaire, that one _deserves_ to be spirit shit on? 

And I had no idea what the night before meant for my friendship with Artemis. I was the undisputed master of No Strings Attached Fucking, but this… this was _complicated._ And with me, sex was _never_ complicated. I never _let_ it be. Contrary to popular belief, I always Did It only with women I loved, trusted, committed to, and/or enjoyed, and always clearly communicated my expectations regarding the nature of the relationship, made my boundaries explicitly known, and if ever even _one_ question or hangup popped up, I curbed it and let my hand and my cock stay properly acquainted. I had no idea if Artemis would want me again — but I knew, to my sickening remorse and mounting disquiet, that if she _did_ want a Round Two, I would never turn her down. Same with a Round Three, and on down the line, as all the while I spiraled deeper and deeper into the vortex of my feelings that I was only just realizing I’d _long_ held repressed. That only made me feel even _worse_ — if such a thing were even _possible_ at that point — and I just dug my heels in and resisted those _feelings_ all the more insistently, thinking on my dead best friend. And for the first time since I’d embarked on my manifold sexcapades, I had no idea what the heads and tails of my expectations and boundaries in this were — only that I was going to let Artemis take the wheel. And still more dishearteningly, that I’d be _hurt_ if she didn’t want this ball to keep on rolling, wherever it might go.

I paused at an intersection, and passed my hands over my face, accosted with the memory of Artemis chucking her bags and hurling her slight form into mine, wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in my chest. I was abruptly further disconcerted by how _badly_ I wanted to feel that lithe warmth in my arms again, and sooner rather than later, thank you kindly and goodbye.

Okay. Time to get the hell out of Gotham before I raced back to her mother’s apartment, and held my iPhone out to blare Peter Gabriel under Artemis’ window in a desperate attempt at completely inappropriate, off-limits courtship. 

Blüdhaven was maybe a forty-five minute drive from Gotham. Artemis and I had been lazy and abused the hell out of the Zetas so I could walk her home, since I didn’t keep a car and the day was too crappy for the Tomahawk, much as she loved that thing and borrowed it or hopped a ride on it with me every chance she got (another dumb, random benefit of being a Wayne beneficiary — if I got pulled over for that non-street legal vehicle and was found to be Bruce’s golden boy/Gotham’s darling, the cop would probably just bust a fanboy nut all over the bike and inundate me with questions and curiosities and then, once satisfied, send us on our merry way with an obligatory verbal warning.) I didn’t want to use the Zetas again, so I’d need a ride home at some point, but I didn’t feel like facing the music consisting of my options in Gotham — i.e. my brothers, Bruce, Alfred, so on — for the same reason I wanted to avoid the Zetas and their bipedal traffic. I have a tendency to freaking _advertise_ my emotions if I’m not consciously keeping them in check. And while I’m a _good_ actor — I’m a showman, after all, a performer down to my bones with stagecraft in my very blood and marrow — if I’m not actively presenting the desired facade to the world, the truth reveals itself, every time. Just by nature, I wear my heart on my sleeve. 

And that day, I didn’t feel like pretending, I didn’t feel like hamming it up, I didn’t feel like play-acting to an audience, and although I didn’t especially want to be alone with the mess that was my thoughts and the repugnant company that was my revolting self, I was well aware this lack of desire to put on an accustomed show meant that my adoptive family would all take one look at me and _know_ instantaneously that something was up. And then what? My options were growing increasingly limited, since I sure as hell wasn’t about to ask Barbara for a ride. 

My heart lurched. I couldn’t even say with feeling behind it that I was over her by then. I still caught myself sitting by my phone, on my computer, waiting for a text, an instant message, an actual barb from Barb, anything. I’d gotten to the point that I was like a jealous toddler with a new sibling — any attention, negative included, was better than none. And although I was actively engaged in a game of Fix-It with my intractable ex-girlfriend, I’d gone and had sex with one of my best friends, her best friends, for whom I was now _really_ starting to question the nature of my feelings. Babs would roast my chestnuts on an open fire and nom my drumstick come Thanksgiving when she heard about this. Not just because I’d had sex with someone, but because that someone was _Artemis_. Who was still grieving, still vulnerable. The way Babs (and probably others) would see it, I’d capitalized on that vulnerability just to put her widely desired name in my Little Black Book of Late Night Booty Calls.

To say I was sorry didn’t even cover it. Sorry to Arty, sorry to Wally, sorry to Babs. 

I needed to clear my head.

I sighed, and headed to Robinson Park to indulge in an activity that, when all else failed, had always calmed me enough to get my brain properly resituated within my skull. I was too hungover to comfortably ventilate my excess of nervous, stressed out energy on the rings or bar — my usual first choices. I ran a serious risk of vomiting spectacularly through the arcs and turns, and my head was too damn fragile under said hangover even to fathom working my stressors out on a pounding run. Plan C, then, the Final Option. 

Along the way to the park, I picked up rocks — smooth, flat-surfaced, round stones. Not too heavy, not too large, not too small or light, either, all the while loading up my pockets with them. _Call me Amélie Poulain,_ I thought, less than mirthful, hearing the click of a rock as it joined its brethren in my burgeoning pocket. This little Zen activity of bouncing rocks over water, garnered from my father’s own habits and honed as Dad had taught me when I was a kid, was always the last, best way to quiet my mind.

I stood on a wet, puddly stretch of pitted concrete at the shoreline of the reservoir, soaking in the frigid sprinkling of rain, oblivious to my discomfort, and spent some time skipping rocks. I deliberately focused on nothing else, funneling out all the riotous noise of my thoughts, mixing the methods of doing so that I’d learned from both of my fathers, working on perfecting that twenty degree angle off of the surface of the tolerably settled water, mastering the flick of the wrist necessary to send the stones bouncing rather than sinking. I didn’t think about Artemis. I didn’t think about Barbara. I didn’t think about Wally. I didn’t think about what last night spelled for the future of one of my most valued friendships. 

I made it up to eight skips, no Russell Byars, but not shabby, either. By the time I’d exhausted my cache of stones, I’d relaxed a bit, and felt ready to go face people, make an effort at organizing my thoughts, and hang out with my odious self without sparking an internal confrontation. 

A good thing, too, since just as I stood up, my comm went off, paging me to the Watchtower. 

I checked my watch. 4:15.

Well, I won the bet — except I had no idea what the pool consisted of. 

I heaved a sigh, and headed to the Zeta. Time to put on my showiest of showman’s faces and try masking my hangover and post-coitus, attempt feigning normalcy and evading any ensuing after-sex weirdness, and most importantly, try salvaging and safeguarding my upturned relationship with one of my closest friends — before I lost her like I had oh, _too_ many others.

Suiting up, I had to bite back a chuckle at the marks she’d left all over my back, raking her nails across my skin the night before. Zatanna had been romantic, Raquel fun-loving, Bette passionate, and Barbara dominant. Artemis was _feisty._ I damn near caught wood recalling the feeling of her fingertips pressing into my skin, dragging rivets of perfectly balanced pain and pleasure over my flesh, and had to hold my breath and count to ten — okay, twenty — before entering the Watchtower. I’d have to make a point of avoiding any casual, passing glances in the locker rooms later. 

Then again, it wasn’t like I uncommonly got laid. I was successful enough in my intimate enterprises that I’d garnered a bit of an unfortunate rep, the fact that I partook in responsible _serial monogamy_ chucked aside and ignored in favor of giving me shit. Odds were, my friends would, to my vast luck in this particular case, pass the scratches off on some unnamed twat du’jour and no one would even catch a sniff of the fact that Artemis was the perpetrator.

As long as I kept my shit together next to my entirely unheralded Sorta One Night Stand. 

And, while I was at it, avoided my Ex Girlfriend the Veritable Freaking Psychic Medium at all costs. Thereby not compiling any incriminating anecdotal evidence based on behavioral interpretation and hearsay.

I came up beside Artemis in the control room (thankfully _not_ sporting a visible boner through the exceptionally uncomfortable cup that kept my dong snugly tucked into its confines), fully bedecked in my Nightwing garb, and feeling a good deal more relaxed within its incog folds. Things might have potentially shifted between Dick and Artemis — but that didn’t mean it had between Nightwing and Tigress. There was a safety, a comfort that unexpectedly came with the mask. Far more at ease, I approached her, and stood by her not merely because I wanted to be near her again after the night previous, and not only due to wishing to assure myself that things wouldn’t fly straight off the rails and careen into Weirdville between us, but because I wanted to assure _her_ of that, too. To promise her that we were still friends, that we were still partners, that nothing would change for the worse, that my words to her would ring true — that it would be okay.

“Hey, girl,” I said warmly, genuinely happy to see her, leaning into her briefly, then withdrawing. She looked up at me, her face mostly hidden by the Tigress mask, but her body language was unmistakable, the expression in her eyes unmissable. 

Relief.

Thank God. 

“Sup, Boy Wonder,” she said lightly, nudging me back. “Ready to fight that hangover — I mean, those bad guys?”

“Yep, just gotta pray they don’t go for my pretty face,” I told her. “My head’ll _splatter_ if I take so much as a love pat from a quivering toenail. And then where will I be — I mean, that contract with Clinique can’t go to anyone else…”

Artemis snorted. “What the hell is a quivering toenail?”

I inclined my head. “You know, I actually have no idea?”

“It sounds foul,” she said, chuckling a bit. “Sorry about your modeling prospects, but I think even _not_ hungover your head would splatter getting brushed with one. Just by the power of sheer grossness.”

“Let’s hope that’s not a move one of the baddies uses today, then, since grossness is kind of going to be my 3.5 elemental weakness — stomach’s pretty touchy, too, and damn it, I need that Clinique money. I blew all of Batdad’s on a model plane e-shop that never made it off the ground,” I joked blithely. 

“Bet Batdad was flying high after that one,” Artemis said with a smirk under her mask. 

“He was gloating so transcendentally he practically wound up on another plane,” I returned, grinning, and — speaking of Batdad — tuned into Batman as he started the briefing.

“A theft,” he began. “Critical, and successful in the gaining of sensitive material at the Justice League’s formerly clandestine storage facility on the outskirts of Gotham. This particular robbery turned violent, and quickly. Several guards were injured, one critical. Black Canary, Green Arrow, Red Tornado, Wonder Woman, Zatanna, and Rocket made it onto the scene, but not after components of the Amaze-O android stored there were taken by an unidentified team of thieves. The remaining conflict, perpetuated by rebuilt and further advanced versions of the Reds deployed to deter Leaguers from giving chase, spanned several grueling hours, and secured the thieves’ escape. Their destination remained undetermined until now, as a binary provided by Nightwing some months ago intercepted and decoded a transaction between Lex Luthor and the thieves at approximately 2:30pm today.”

I didn’t miss Artemis’ shoulders as they tensed up, muscles stitching tightly as though someone laced up an unseen set of corset strings between her shoulder blades, when Batman went on to say,

“The leader of the thieves was revealed through this transaction to be Sportsmaster, who is headed with a gang of fellow thugs to the storage facility in Metropolis to make an effort at acquiring the pieces of the android stored there. What intentions Luthor has in possessing the Amaze-O model remain a mystery for now, but one that the League will pursue and uncover at a later date, and confront accordingly. For now, the mission is to intercept the thieves, prevent the robbery from occurring, locate and retrieve the Amaze-O parts already stolen, and apprehend Sportsmaster and his lackeys. The team consists of high-powered members of the Injustice League — Poison Ivy, Atomic Skull, and Wotan, not to mention muscle hired by the League of Shadows. Aqualad will assign squads — their members, and assignments.”

I squeezed Artemis’ tautening shoulder as the briefing tapered, and Aqualad took the fore. 

“Well. Daddy dear’s finally wormed out from whatever Kentucky Tavern-addled woodwork he’s been hiding in,” she murmured, her jaw setting. “Figures it’d be because he’s been up to something sketchy.”

“Have you talked to him recently?” I asked. 

“Not much. Once or twice.”

“He say anything of interest, that we might be able to use?”

She shook her head. “He was only trying to get to my mom. Wear her down, get her to let him back in. She’s really a loose end for him, you know. Or on the flip, a cover, someone to throw under the bus to protect his own ass if the occasion calls for it. Anyway… He didn’t give any indicators as to what his personal or professional lives were looking like. Just really got under my mom’s skin.”

I nodded, and once Kaldur assigned the groups — with Artemis and me on separate squads, damn it, Aqualad — I held out a fist for her to bump. At least Artemis, to her satisfaction, I was sure, was sent to deal with Sportsmaster directly. Kaldur’s choice may have seemed odd, considering the conflict of interest and overload of personal investment on her part, but if there was one thing old Larry Crock (Hairy Cock, Chodiest of the Chodes) could be banked on to do, it would be to totally chuck his original purpose when his wayward, headstrong, incorrigible — and immutably heroic — youngest daughter happened to pop up like a badass ninja Jack-in-the-Box between him and his nefarious affairs in favor of attempting to sway her Vader-style to the Dark Side. Distracting him. Letting her, and her teammates, take care of business effectively in the end.

“Well, here’s your chance — go get ‘im, Tiger,” I said buoyantly.

She gave me a dark look. “Oh, trust me, Big Bird. I plan to.”

I grinned at her, and we separated to join our squads and get the mission rolling.

  
  


*******

  
  


I rubbed my temples, still throbbing, as the stream of water, uneven and spitting, pattered over my face. My muscles ached. Bruises flowered up and down my side, my head swam and throbbed, my back stung and prickled, and my chest felt raw and tight, sort of how it might have felt after a rigorous sprint workout in the pool (specifically the pool — no idea how water workouts bitchsmack the cardiovasculars in such a crazy-specific way, but they _do,_ okay?) But I was satisfied — the mission had been successful, in spite of the unlucky fact that I’d wound up going toe-to-toe with Poison Ivy and her BDSM army of vines when a detonation from one of the Shadows’ weapons hared me off from the rest of my teammates. 

To say _that_ was ugly would understate it. I really missed having a magic-user around, and the first second I got I mentioned that to Zatanna, texting her.

 _Ungrow up,_ I whined. _Come back to Neverland. I needed magical protection this evening. I’m dying. It’s your fault. *weep*_

Her response: _Not all of us can be a Lost Boy Wonder. :P Anti-Captain get his Hook in ya?_

I grinned, and replied. _The ILU, Z. <3 But while Black Adam wasn’t there, Poison Ivy WAS. She abused me. I hurt all over D: _

She sent a text. _Color me chalant with that one. You’ll need an Epsom salt bath later… I’m happy to join you and give you a backrub if you need it ;D_

I froze, staring at the screen of my phone, a Tumblr photo waiting to happen.

Normally, I’d have been all over that like white on rice. Especially given that this marked Zatanna’s first overture since Barbara and I had broken up. I warmed a little, thinking on the fact that Zatanna, ever sensitive, ever respectful, ever kind, had thoughtfully given me plenty of space to sort myself out before extending a hand. Not only was she a dear friend to me on every level, but the perfect adult playmate, as well — she understood the concept of No Strings with flawless acumen, seamlessly separating the fulfillment of our physical and intimate needs with one another from our profound friendship and working relationship. I hadn’t gone to her after my breakup, either — I didn’t want to make her feel used or taken advantage of (or to unwittingly make good on those feelings if I _did_ go to her too precipitately in my heartbreak.) However, I’d caught myself considering seeking her out in recent weeks — had that text come just twenty-four hours earlier, I’d have jumped all over it.

But, after the night previous, I had _no_ idea, all at once, what the fuck my relationship status was supposed to be, and no way in hell was I doing a goddamn thing that risked ruffling Artemis’ feathers by even a frog’s hair. Although Zatanna’s offer remained tempting, considering I was hopelessly clueless as to what Artemis’ headspace was, and the maelstrom of confusion and bewilderment that mushroomed in the aftershocks of the previous night left me pathetically desperate to just go full koala bear on the first interested party, I just…

I just couldn’t take her up on it. End of story, finito, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Or not. I loved Zatanna, I appreciated her and everything she represented to me, but I couldn’t risk Artemis. I couldn’t.

I sent as neutral a text as I possibly could, one that would deter Zatanna without hurting her feelings or insulting her, and one that would buy me enough time to figure out which end was up and which was down. 

_Possible rain check? I’m dying, remember :P :D_

I sighed with relief when I received: _Rain check noted <3 Rest up, Boy Wonder, and kindly don’t die! <3 ILU 2 BTW :P_

With that, I unsuited, grimacing at the agonizing, physical reminders of the fight with Poison Ivy, and hit the showers. 

I knew, standing under the jet of hot water, that I was really only alive because I had a seriously dedicated (and likely put-upon) guardian angel looking after me. I survived merely due to a handy combination of spiffy new toys, permissive terrain, physical acuity and fleet-of-foot, experience points, and sheer, dumb luck. I all but got mopped the floor with, though, in the end, winding up with an impressive array of injuries, including an absolutely gorgeous shiner. There went my theoretical Clinique contract. I’d likely have to tell my school and Haly’s friends that I’d broken up a bar brawl between the human equivalents of a Mac truck and an aircraft carrier to keep my cover and maintain my manly image at the same time. 

A series of incendiary Birdarangs slowed the onslaught of Poison Ivy’s vines enough that I was able to beat the ground at a dead sprint, separating myself from that portion of the fray. I rejoined my teammates, some of whom were locked in combat with Shadows, others of whom were hard at work fighting to break into the stationary armored truck that housed the Amaze-O parts. In the end, Barbara and I ended up successfully breaking into the truck and securing the parts, as Conner, Bart, and Jaime deflected our enemies long enough to enable a clean getaway with the robot booty, literal and figurative. Following that, I needed some serious attention — medical and cuddly varieties. I had to settle for the former, considering the ambiguity of my bachelor standing, however desperately I might have needed the latter. 

Miraculously, concussion-wise, I got off scot-free, but I sat through stitches and pokes and prods and disinfectant and ointments. (And a lifted eyebrow over the fingernail scratches across my back.) Dr. Cross gave me a single dose of low-level scrip painkillers, antibiotic ointment, and an order to get a lot of rest for the remainder of the week. 

I bumped into Artemis (by accident, I swear) on my way to the Zetas, dressed by then in civvies and, thank God, not reeking of chili dog locker balls and vegetable soup sweaty pits and sticky chemical smoke. I was glad, since I wanted to ask her how she was doing after her confrontation with her father. Deus ex machina in the form of Ubu had enabled Sportsmaster to escape, but not after a bit of a knockdown between the two of them, glossed over in the debriefing. I had taken note of a crack in her mask and dribbles of blood over her jaw and shoulder, and when we joined up at the Zeta Tubes, I saw she’d indeed had some attention paid her as well — on the field and off. I frowned, concerned, taking in her appearance. Her cheek sported some stitches, and her eyebrow was split open, held closed with butterfly bandages. Bruising floreted into her hairline from her cheek, brow, and temple. Her damp, summer blonde hair was untied, falling around her face, unsuccessful in mitigating the visibility of the injury.

She noticed my alarm, because she pressed a hand to her cheek, and, in a Steve Buscemi impression, said, “You should see the other guy!”

I laughed. “Eh, she started shriekin’, y’know?” I added. I briefly laid a thumb on her cheek, avoiding the actual stitches. “Seriously, though, you okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” she returned, her brows purling over her adorable nose. “There goes your contract with Clinique — you got _way_ messed up, Dickiebird.”

I grinned jovially. “You should see the other guy.”

She laughed. 

“Real Talk time,” I said, sobering. “ _Are_ you okay?”

She sighed, her lips stretching a little. Her teeth ground, and then she said, “I’m all right, Dick. Just… _really_ ready to bust some serious balls. I’d go after Sportsmaster tonight if I weren’t about to fall flat on my face and my mom wasn’t expecting me.”

“I feel a little responsible for the falling on your face part,” I confessed, running a hand over my hair, contrite. 

She shook her head. “Oh, stop. It’s not like you force-fed me Marjorie’s _amazing_ cocktails. Besides, if I ran off on some dumbass cockamamie go-get-’im solo mission after my mangy, transient father, I can’t guarantee it would end well, hungover or not.” She worried at the stitches in her cheek. “Need to get traught first.”

I squeezed her shoulder. “Next time, Gadget.”

“Next time,” she agreed. “And maybe next time I’ll get lucky and you’ll be on my squad.”

It somehow felt good, hearing her say that. “You want me to be on your squad for that?”

She paused, and then half-smiled. “Yeah. I do, actually. You having my back in that would help me get and _stay_ traught.”

I smiled, then bowed. “It would be an honor, milady. You have my sword. Or escrima, or whatever.”

“Speaking of milady,” she said, and gave me an unreadable look. “Did you, uh… Did you want to come watch _Game of Thrones_ with me and mom? We DVR’ed the latest episode, which… I _still_ haven’t seen, because, you know, life and stuff.”

I had to fight not to let my pleased grin split my face in half; equally not to express amusement at the fact that we’d missed the episode because it had aired the night before. “Indeed I do… _milady._ I haven’t seen it yet, either. Like you said, life and stuff.”

“Oh, you know,” she said, “I just thought of something. You totally won the bet earlier. What do I owe you?”

I gave her arm a light nudge. “Call it a Gentleman’s Bet. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Should I be relieved?” she asked humorously.

“That entirely depends,” I said.

She laughed, and I followed her into the Zeta Tube.

While no cuddles were had, that evening wound up being a lot of fun and fulfilling in its own right, watching the latest (and dare I say, fucking insane) _GoT_ episode with Artemis and her mother. In unspoken communion, Artemis and I remained carefully disengaged from one another so as not to raise questions from her mom… and okay, maybe also from ourselves. We ordered pizza, which sparked a little battle of wills between Paula and me over who footed the check. Although she insisted it was her treat, I won through the sheer power of my epic charm — and by bringing up that Wally would tan my hide if I let her pay. (Not that his ghost wasn’t going to tan my hide already… and who was I gonna call?) Paula had laughed and agreed, and backed off. 

When that evening drew to a close, I wasn’t sure what to expect as Artemis walked me to the door, demurely remaining out of reach, although the scent she favored wafted around her and threatened to drive me into some hormonal reenactment of Mr. Hyde. There was a vacillating silence as I stepped over the threshold and into the night beyond, poised to meet Alfred down the block so that he could drive me home to Blüdhaven. I fought a moment of anticlimax when Artemis, her posture stiff, gesticulated a little half-heartedly, and we shared a bit of an uncertain, awkward hug — ass-out, chaste, platonic — and I, again, left her at her mother’s door, it clicking shut behind me with an unsettling sense of drawing a pronounced line in the sand. 

For all that I’d had fun with her and her mom, and was relieved that Artemis’ figurative door wasn’t closed completely to me, I felt bogged down and brimming as I walked down the block after sending a text to Alfred to let him know I was ready to be picked up. That evening, that proffering, it was an olive branch of sorts — a bid on Artemis’ part to allow bygones to be bygones, a gesture of friendship intended to assure me that things would go back to normal. This little wordless communication indicated that there was, after all, no future here, that friendship was it, that our bond was what it was, had always been, and always would be.

I sat on a bench, dampening under the fall of rain, drawing stares from passersby at my plethora of injuries, and tried to convince myself that this was for the best. That this was how it should be. That this was what was right. That the night before was a wholly inappropriate fluke, to be stuffed under the floorboards and forgotten.

But I’d _never_ forget it, I knew. It would be my tell-tale heart, beating audibly to my ears, reminding me always that it rested materially beneath the planks of my floor, where I’d unsuccessfully tried to bury it. 

I sat and shivered until Alfred, blessed Alfred, pulled up in the Lincoln Navigator to pick me up.

I didn’t hear from Artemis again outside of team things until nearly a month and a half later.


	3. 9-12-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, updating a bit early, hope y'all aren't mad. :D 
> 
> Much love! <3 ^_^ 
> 
> ~EF

_September 12, 2019_

  
  


_Dick,_

_Continuing on these little skippity-doo-dahs down Memory Lane… THIS one, I think we’ll agree, is a Pivotal Moment. In a good way._

_So I was never really much of a cat person. Too many painful associations with Jade, a consummate and discriminatory cat lover. I’m surprised she doesn’t punt Brucely into the Sprang River for wagging his tail at her when she comes over. But there’s something undeniably cat-like about her — that fierce independence, that demeanor that can go from super aloof to super loving all in the swish of a cat’s tail (ha!), the tendency to disappear and reappear. And every time I see a cat darting into an alleyway, I think of Jade, taking her stuff, and vanishing with an almost feline air into the night, sprightly, tail-up, insouciantly leaving me alone with the Big Bad Wolf in the apartment in the Bowery. Just like a freaking cat._

_Now — I’ve heard of the occasional valiant feline, Tara the Hero Cat, for instance, but last I checked, cats aren’t predisposed to jumping a burglar for you. Unless their food bowl is empty. THEN they’ll protect you from the burglar. And then, once the burglar’s throat is yanked open and you have THAT mess to deal with and explain to the cops, you’d better get your ass over to that food bowl and fill it. Like right meow. And by the way you’re welcome._

_Which… was typical Jade. Back in the day, anyway._

_Anyhoodle. I wouldn’t say I held an active contempt for cats, but I wasn’t a big cat fan at the end of the day. For those reasons. Oh, and Teekl. Don’t forget that thing. :P_

_That REALLY changed with Princess Peach._

_2018 was one of the worst winters Gotham and Blüdhaven ever endured, as you remember — it was stubbornly continuously in the negatives, the wind off the water violent enough to just about rip the skin in frozen strips right off your body. I’m still shocked pedestrians didn’t wind up like that Nazi in Indiana Jones under the skin-peeling power wash of the sub-zero wind and snow. But, like the obnoxious koala bear you are, you always pulled me to you, opening your coat and wrapping it — and your arms — around me, making walking insanely awkward to accomplish, even if you were gallantly sheltering me from the elements. Annoying and endearing, as always._

_So I walked unannounced like a blast from the North Pole into your loft that one night (in my defense, I had a key by then), and saw you holding what I swore was a freaking soot sprite in your arms, bottle-feeding it._

_Yes, bottle-feeding a little unidentified black ball of floof. For a second, I legit thought you were bottle-feeding a stuffed animal. Which begged the question, why the hell would you be playing babies with a stuffed animal? And if you were going to play babies, why not just… play with, you know, a baby doll? I actually started looking around for Lian, wondering if Roy fobbed her off on you for the evening for whatever reason._

_Discovering that there was no Lian in the vicinity, I realized you’d been trying to greet me for some time._

“ _Hi. Uh… What the actual heck is that?” I’d asked, squinting with extremely overt suspicion at the little puffball._

_(I know. So eloquent.)_

“ _Uh… Well, darling, I’d like you to meet my new tenant,” you’d replied cheerfully, extending the little black marshmallow in my direction. “Artemis, Princess Peach, Princess Peach, Artemis.” I put two-and-two together by the supernatural power of observation that you were holding a kitten. “I pulled her out of a window well — fits, right?”_

_I just stared. It was the weekend, and as I always did on the weekends, I felt like expectorated balls (why weekends? I’ll never understand why weekends in particular curbstomped the crap out of me back then), and I’d basically planned on crashing all the way through Sunday on your exceptionally comfy old couch and for once ALLOWING you to wait on me hand and foot like you’d transformed into some unwholesomely sexy man servant. “Get used to uninvited, four-legged, feline roomie” wasn’t really on my to-do list._

_I reminded you that I really didn’t like cats, and weren’t black cats bad luck anyway? And in return, you pouted at me (YOU ACTUALLY POUTED!), clutching the kitten to you as though she were a holy chalice, all but begging, “Can we keep her?” (Which still strikes me as silly — it WAS your loft, after all.) You implored me to keep in mind that when you’d found the kitten, she was almost completely buried in snow inside the window well of one of the lower level apartments, with icicles hanging off her fur, and so weak she could barely even open her eyes or her mouth to meow. I mean, have a heart, Artemis!_

_(We’d later discover she just plain can’t meow. No voice whatsoever. Just a little hiss of air when she attempts it. And that her purr is soundless, too. But you can feel it, the little rumble in her chest when she’s super content.)_

_I’d never really pegged you for a cat guy, figuring fat, useless house cats to be a little small time and unexciting for you, considering that your pets growing up were legit tigers and a freaking elephant. (Meeting Zitka is worthy memory therapy material, maybe next time.) But then again, you COULD never resist a damsel in distress, and Peach totally qualified as one._

_I spent that weekend in my pajamas nomming plain Eggos on the couch, mainlining Ghibli movies (guess the new resident soot sprite inspired me) and resolutely ignoring the clumsy, pitter-pattering fluffball as she acclimated herself to her new digs. I ignored you as well while you gushed over the darn thing and trailed all around your apartment after her like a little lovelorn duckling. Eventually, as daily life inevitably dictated, you nipped off to the shower (you traitor), leaving me alone for a time with the kitten, who was bound and determined to make friends with my grumpy, resistant self._

_I pulled my toes away from her little bunny nose as she sniffed my feet through my extravagantly fuzzy grandma socks, angrily mashed myself against the arm of the couch as she came creeping curiously across the cushions toward me, and stalwartly did NOT look at her (if I can’t see her, she can’t see me!) I finally shoved the stubborn-ass itty bitty thing away from me when she dared try crawling into my lap. That spot was reserved for Brucely and Lian — not some worm-riddled fleabag plucked on a heroic whim out of a window well. As far as I was concerned, the little shit was YOUR cat. You took her to the vet, your name was on her paperwork as her humanoid next-of-kin, ergo, YOUR cat. Eventually, though, realizing Little Princess wasn’t going to be deterred or told no, I resigned myself, and resentfully sat there with her Royal Highness curled up all happy and satisfied around the curve of my belly._

_When I glanced at her, determined to give her the Look of a Thousand Deaths in the hopes that she’d either go up in flames and wind up a scorch mark across the front of my shirt (RIP, Princess Peach, it was real, Dick at least will miss you), or take the damn hint and realize that off was the direction in which I wished her to fuck, I couldn’t help noticing how SOFT she looked. Forgive me, your Ladyship, but do you moisturize? Then, it was like my hand just moved of its own accord, like it spontaneously sprouted a brain and was like IT’S SO FLUFFY I’M GONNA DIIIIEEE._

_Yes, Dick. I electively pet the kitten._

_I started out just kind of running a hand over her fur, curious more than anything, and… just… she was SOOOOO delightfully soft, and I could feel her little mini-motor starting up, and when she brushed her cheek against my fingers, and lifted her tiny head into my palm, her lower lip drooping into that totally derpy look she gets, that’s when, all in a nanosecond, that stupid cat had me hook, line, and sinker. (Cute little fuzzy asshole.) By the time you came out of the shower, I was cooing to her and pressing my cheek against hers, from that moment her lady’s maid to the end of time._

_And damned if you didn’t look totally triumphant, standing there like a statue of the Greek god of I Told You So, showing off your deific six-pack abdominals, wrapped in a towel that barely covered your pubes. I still felt like polishing the floor with my vomit, but between you obviously being pleased about the fact that I’d taken a shine to the new woman in your life, and me incapable of resisting playing with your abs, I’d set Peach on a pillow, given you the come hither gesture, and not needing to be asked twice, you bounded over and we, uh, Did Things on the couch._

_What set that particular romp apart, though, was that Peach (persistent little devil she is) kept bopping in, sniffing your ear, lapping at your cheek, curling up in a little furry ball at the crook of your neck, kneading your chest with her little outstretched front paws. Both of us were untreatably co-dependent on her even that early on, and we just couldn’t bear to move her, which made the sex itself awkward and and klutzy and giggly and a nigh-fail. We both succeeded in hitting the finish line, though, and once that was said and done, we snuggled, ah, did we EVER snuggle — all three of us, you, me, soot sprite wannabe Princess Peach — and kept going on the Ghibli marathon. Pretty much the picture of that entire weekend… and a lot of weekends to follow._

_After Wally, I never thought it would be possible for me to lead a life so utterly NORMAL and PEACEFUL again. And, this time, it wasn’t unexpectedly boring with no end in sight. Wally called you an enabler, kind of in a joking-ha-ha-no-really way, when I went undercover with Kaldur, I don’t know if you knew that. But between inspiring me to throw the mask back on, cheering me on as I risked life and limb in a meth-level addictive (and possibly equally destructive) night job chasing greasy monsters/criminal overlords/psychotic masterminds, and actually getting me to give cats a chance, I think I’d agree with him. You’re TOTALLY an enabler. The worst enabler. You’re a straight-up freaking conspirator. A TERRIBLE influence. :P_

_However… if you ask me, and I’ll say this whispering so Wally doesn’t hear, arguably in the RIGHT AREAS. That weekend, Dick, knowing the mask waited for me with no roadblocks between me and it, knowing that I had your full support and understanding in ALL of my wants and goals… I was just over-the-moon, crazy, stupid, dancing happy. You were my unparalleled BAD BOY White Knight — which was what I needed then._

_Granted, it’s what I need now, too…_

_More soon._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and thanks to brilliant beta Chibi_Nightowl and equally a nod to my own beloved King Bowser, who shares a similar origin story to Princess Peach. Had to give you a cameo, Captinn Stoopid. <3


	4. 12-19-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think I'll settle on Wednesdays as my update day. <3 Probably the most convenient time of the week for me. :-) 
> 
> Also! I should point out, Dick's YJ u-verse birthday is December 1st. :-) (not sure why they changed it from March 21st, but they did...) 
> 
> Much love! <3 ^_^

_December 19th, 2018_

  
  


_Artemis_

  
  


The throat shredding gasp-squeal I issued in a pealing detonation _had_ to have set off a seismograph somewhere across the country, or at the least alerted Superman. I backed wildly away from the toilet, my arms cartwheeling, the corner of the towel rack squarely jabbing my spine and throwing me momentarily off balance. 

“Fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck, fuck, fuck—”_

Then the tears came all at once, buckets just chucked out of me, my lungs swelling with an overhaul of oxygen as I sucked in a chestful of air and held it through my strangled sobs and screaming panic. 

A knock fell on the door, jouncing me out of my skin.

“Artemis?”

M’gann’s voice, followed by Zatanna’s.

“Are you okay?”

I numbly made my way to the bathroom door, opened it, and all but crashed into Zatanna, my whole form razed with tectonic shocks as I gave way under the strain, bawling now, completely, irretrievably, hopelessly beside myself. 

“Arty, honey…” Zatanna murmured with a soothing, crooning sound, enveloping me in her familiar embrace. My arms were bent, tense, rigid at my sides. 

I shook my head, trying ineffectively to pull it together. I drew away from Zatanna, choking on spit and snot, my chest two breaths away from just getting squashed to smithereens beneath the freaking car crusher that had wrapped itself around my ribs. M’gann rested a hand on my back, running her hand over my shoulders. 

“Guess we don’t need to ask about the verdict…” said Zatanna, although she and M’gann both turned their gazes to the back of the toilet, where the little white stick rested smugly, as though wholly satisfied with itself.

“Oh, no…” said Zatanna, approaching it, looking at the display window on the goddamn asshole stick.

Two tiny, life-altering, purple lines. Crisscrossing. A plus sign.

Positive.

Artemis, plus one.

I was fucking pregnant.

“Oh, Arty,” said M’gann, now taking her turn to hug me in my uncontrollable, unabashed despair. 

Overwrought, past the edge of hysterical, I pulled away from her, falling atop the toilet seat with a thud. I buried my face in my hands, and just cried myself into a nauseated vertigo of complete fatigue, with my friends on either side of me, holding my hands, rubbing my back, letting me weep myself out like some lachrymose contributor to a docudrama. I cried until my stomach and chest ached and burned, my muscles twitched and went watery, until my nose grew numb and felt ballooned to the size of a volleyball on my face. 

When my eyes became hot and buzzed, the reservoir of liquid in my body thoroughly depleted, I slipped off the toilet, pushing M’gann and Zatanna aside, and slammed to my knees. I threw the lid up, and repeatedly puked violently into the bowl. ( _So_ dignified.) Eventually, the retching tapered into dry heaves that funneled slowly into little hitches, and then into soft pulls in my belly before rescinding into a complacent simmer. I breathed over the fouled water, six-eight-seven, all through my mouth, not risking respiring through my nose. 

Finally, I sagged to the cold, clammy floor of the bathroom, my stomach twisting up into blistering knots, my shirt sticking to my back and my hair stringy with sweat. Pretty much my state of being, off and on, for the last few weeks — since a handful of days before I started on the placebo pills in my birth control pack, wondering at the entirely inexplicable lack of menses. I perspired under a mounting sense of dread and confusion with each day after that passed undisturbed — even texting Jade at one point, calling on her experience ( _that_ was a fun conversation. Not.) 

I fumbled, reaching for the handle, trying to flush. M’gann spared me the trouble, gently patting my hand away, and then pulling the knob herself.

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe this…” I moaned wretchedly, too distressed and spent to pay any goddamn heed to how utterly melodramatic I sounded. I might have done Nicholas Sparks or even Margaret Mitchell (in my mind, the crown King and Queen of melodrama) proud, except I lacked the astonishing grace and eloquence of the latter. Reeling, I sat up, and drew my knees to my chest, and rested my hands on the back of my head, my forehead pressed to the damp cotton of my leggings. “I’m screwed. I’m dead. Wally’s going to come back and straight-up _blast_ me with a bolt of lightning. What do I do? I mean, _what do I do?”_

“Okay, first of all,” said Zatanna, “don’t worry about Wally right now, and second of all, it’ll be okay, Artemis. Really, it will. This is the 21st century — you have options.”

“Yeah, options,” I scoffed, then hiccupped impressively. That threatened more heaves, and I held my breath, dragging a shaking hand over my sweaty forehead, looking up at the ceiling. I exhaled slowly, my eyes welling up all over again.

“You _do_ have options, though. And you _don’t_ need to make a decision right this second,” said M’gann. “I mean… you’re not all that far along, are you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” M’gann said brightly. “So you have a little while to think about it.”

“Let’s start from Square One,” said Zatanna. “You should probably go to the doctor, to begin with.”

I folded my arms on my knees, buried my face in them, and shook as I started crying all over again. M’gann pulled a wad of toilet paper from the dispenser and handed it to me, ghetto tissues. I pressed it to my face and blew my nose with an infantile squeak.

“Wendy’s mom is an OB,” M’gann supplied. “Maybe she knows someone here in Gotham she can refer you to.”

“Oh, shit,” I hissed, lighting on something awful. “Should the _guy_ be involved in that part of things?”

“That depends… I mean, I think it’s supposed to hinge on the guy’s level of vested interest in this, and how comfortable you happen to be with him. You know, with telling him,” M’gann said. “I mean… There’s not really any obligation here, Artemis. You don’t have to involve him if you’re not comfortable with it.”

“About the father,” said Zatanna, “ _is_ he someone you feel comfortable involving in this?”

“It’s complicated,” I muttered, staring bitterly at my bare feet. The polish on my toes was flaking off. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, who _is_ it?” asked M’gann. “Is it someone we know?”

I stared at the floor a moment, and finally nodded, sniffing loudly.

I hadn’t told _anyone_ about that night with Dick. Not a single freaking soul. That was something I’d kept jealously private. To say that I hadn’t dwelled on it frequently — oh, _very_ frequently — would be a flat-out, willful lie. But I’d held it entirely to myself, refusing to share it with _anyone,_ even the girls in that bathroom with me, as though I channeled a schoolyard bully with a prized toy. My mom had asked me a handful of tactful questions about him, clearly picking up on the altered vibes between us (Mom really had her moments of perceptive shrewdness — this one in particular rankled. She obviously knew Dick well, given the tenure and closeness of our friendship, his status as her acting son-in-law’s BFF, and the noteworthy increase in the time we spent together in the wake of what happened to Wally. However, I didn’t expect her to pick up on any shifted tones between him and me from one measly little pizza and _Game of Thrones_ night. Apparently, though, she did — and big time. Grrr.) 

And on that night, after Dick had left my mom’s apartment, I hadn’t called, texted, instant messaged, emailed, anything. When I shut the door, I _shut it._ In every sense of the term. That little evening spent together had been something of a gentle farewell, a temporary one, at least until I could figure out what the hell was going on inside my head where he was concerned, without the disorienting radio interference his presence injected into my already scrambled thoughts. I knew it was unfair, that it was totally hard-boiled and bloodless, leaving him in the cold like that, however unintentional. And then _that_ guilt dogged my steps, adding to the shame I already experienced from the pulverizing knowledge that I’d had a drunken one-night-stand with my deceased pre-fiancé’s bestie. All that compunction just snowballed until I couldn’t face Dick at all. I couldn’t look him in the (preternaturally handsome) face, share space, or even _oxygen_ with him. 

Even worse, every time I was, to my enormous chagrin, forced to stand near him in the Watchtower, any moment he put out gentle feelers of conversation to me, any time we went over plans and stratagems together for myriad team missions — I could sense it in him, the hurt, the confusion, the uncertainty. He hid it effectively, to his credit — he’s nothing if not a showman down to his marrow — but I _knew_ him by then. I could tell it was there, Lord Rochester’s mad wife, screaming her head off behind the closed door of the cloistered room. The knowledge that our friendship had taken a wild, corybantic turn, derailed itself, and upended, never to be the same, was indubitable to both of us. And as ever, we dealt with it wholly differently. He remained friendly, airy, buoyant, clearly leaving the line open, the ball in my court, his proffering of continued friendship and/or _more_ extended plainly to me. 

I honestly couldn’t stomach facing the unsettling, intimidating potentials of that same _more_ , overcome by the very real, fully terrifying possibility of _losing him_ if I opened myself up to what he might have offered. 

So… I had defaulted to an old, comfortable strategy. I pushed him away first.

And here I was, on the floor of the bathroom, knocked up higher than a kite with my Not Boyfriend’s baby. What now? Finally expressing my amplifying suspicions regarding my bodily status to Zatanna and M’gann, they had, like the good friends they’ve always been, appeared in Gotham the second they could both get away. We all headed out together to pick up, you know… _Tests._ And after taking one, waiting for the results, I had seen one line forming — singular — and then, with a vast air of relief and a mind to call the doc to see what was up with my tardy monthly, I washed my hands. As I turned to pick up the stick to wrap it up and pitch it, forever to be forgotten, _that’s_ when I saw that purple, unhallowed cross in the display window.

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want,” M’gann said appeasingly when I didn’t immediately pony up with the more specific answer, her voice jarring me out of my thoughts.

“Okay, you can’t say anything,” I said, gesturing frantically. “To _anyone._ I mean, you can’t tell a damn soul about this. Promise me.”

“Of course,” said M’gann. “Promise.”

“Mum’s the word, Artemis,” Zatanna agreed.

The two of them were leaning toward me now, eyes wide and glittering, fevered breath detained — interns along on a high-level archaeological dig poised on the brink of a great discovery. I’m not sure what dramatic revelation they expected (Christ, by their expressions, Ollie or Bruce, probably, someone _more_ than scandalous), but I took a breath, held it, and then on the outbreath said with the solemn, heavy air of someone announcing a funeral, “It’s Dick.”

Silence. 

“…Oh, wow,” said M’gann after a time. “Really?” 

I nodded, and again, buried my face in my arms, where they rested on my knees.

“Well… That explains a few things,” said Zatanna with a wry laugh.

I looked up, peering at her from over my sweatshirt sleeves. 

“He turned me down _flat_ on his birthday,” she explicated humorously. “He was super nice about it, but made it abundantly clear he wasn’t up for a birthday lay.”

I stared, briefly speechless. 

_That_ had been another Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day for me. Dick’s birthday. I had a towering pile of gifts I’d fastidiously picked out for him _months_ prior, and had barely been able to hold onto, about to bubble over like an enthusiastically boiling cauldron in my excitement to fork them over to him. I’d gone to great pains in making my selections and spent an uncomfortable wad of cash, and then had been sitting on my anticipation at seeing his face when he opened them since September. 

Expectations Vs. Reality — I walked over to him, nervous-cited, my heart thundering in my hot, throbbing ears as I approached him, and… totally choked. I _had_ planned on hugging him (God, I missed hugging him by then — Dick had octo-arms and absolutely _no_ personal bubble, so trust me, he gave the best goddamn hugs on the planet, bar none), maybe upholding the unofficial Nightwing ex-girlfriend tradition of kissing his cheek (perhaps inadvertently giving our one-time history away), and at the least making it apparent that I was considering picking up some part of the line he’d left chucked my way. Instead, with a schooled, clinical smile, I’d neutrally given him his gifts, and said, in a voice painfully impassive and flat even to my own hearing, “Happy Birthday,” finally walking away to sit down a ways off, where I busied myself with my phone. 

Don’t think I didn’t notice the flash of hurt and letdown that crossed his face before the mask of congeniality retook his features. The self-condemnation made me want to sign myself up for some form of cruel and unusual punishment. Ah, well, I figured, I’d probably cut out early, anyway. I was a little worn feeling, my stomach a hair queasy, my head a tad stony. I assumed I was wrangling the startup of a minor flu, and paid no never mind to my symptoms beyond the representation of an opportunity to make a quick getaway. (Ha. If I’d only known.) I sat, feeling sick, hating myself, watching as the others of our friends greeted him.

And then… the Troupe of Girlfriends Past, Babs coming up first to hug him and kiss his cheek, barely missing his mouth, sparking the gas and and lighting a burner in my chest. I couldn’t help feeling a little emasculated by the knowledge that those two _really_ had a history — and God only knew if he was even remotely close to over her. That she could still approach him and be friendly with him made me abruptly aware of all of my own related abysmal shortcomings, how I'd treated him after our wee tryst. The flame flickered a little, calming as Raquel entered and chastely kissed his cheekbone, fussed a bit over his (gorgeous) overgrown hair, and handed him her package. I decided she was my favorite of his exes in that moment, given her happily married and mother of one status. 

I didn’t even get a moment to wonder over all of _those_ thought processes — all of them decidedly jealous, territorial girlfriend crap (what, was I five seconds off from marching over to Dick, lifting my leg, and peeing all over him to mark his hot bod as my property or some shit?) — when Zatanna, my undisputed best friend, Dick’s ex/first love/occasional fuck buddy, looking achingly glorious, her hair styled all perfect into a gleaming, ebony blow-out, her makeup totally on point, her dress hugging her body, waltzed right on up and just planted a good one on him.

Open-mouthed. Tongues. Everything. I was surprised he didn’t feel her goddamn tits in front of everybody while they were at it.

Zatanna’s perfect, round, soft, full tits. Leagues superior to my stupid teacups.

And this, frankly, wasn’t the first torrid, unapologetic birthday kiss they’d shared with a discomfited audience. Fucking showpeople. No shame.

The heat in my chest blazed into a full-on house fire. My stomach went from queasy to tossing, threatening to present my cookies in a precipitate reappearance. The smoke from the blaze in my torso blushed hotly to my face. I leapt to my feet, and left. Not a word, not a glance, nothing. ’Bye, Felicia, so long, peace out, tootaloo, motherfuckers. 

I. Was. _Pissed._

But then, _why?_ And who was I even mad at? It wasn’t like I’d gone for a moonwalk on Dick’s ass and stuck my flag on its surface. “I hereby claim this ass the property of Artemis Lian Crock the First, and bestow upon it the name of Flawlassness.” As covered, I hadn’t even _spoken_ to him outside of strictly business topics in nearly a month. And neither Dick nor Zatanna had ever expressed interest in attempting the whole BF/GF thing again — and as bestie to both of them, it occurred to me (a little late, at about 2am as I lay frenetically keyed up and sleepless that night) that I, of all people, would know if there was an about-face in their relationship. And for as much as I got nauseous and shaky over the idea that they were fucking like minks in the bed I’d slept in less than a month before while I lay sweating and disconsolate in my own bed an hour up the road, I had to concede I had absolutely no claim to the guy. I’d all but booted him out the door and slammed it so fast it bumped him on the ass before he tumbled to land on his face at the base of the stairs. So who was I to stop him if he took an offer to stick it in an absolutely beautiful woman wholeheartedly DTF, and who conveniently was a friend he loved and trusted as an added bonus?

And I couldn’t get mad at Zatanna — it’s not like she had a _clue_ as to what my headspace was regarding Dick, and if she did have a clue, I knew she wouldn’t have birthday kissed him. 

That left… myself. I was pissed at myself.

When I arrived home at my mother’s apartment, where I was living in the stressful middle of transferring my grad credits from Stanford to Gotham U, I trailed heavily to the bathroom, and threw up… _a lot_. The first of many incidents of illness and vomiting that would plague me in the weeks following.

I got a text from Dick as I lay in bed, staring restlessly up at the ceiling, a little while later.

 _Thanks for everything,_ it read. _Missed you tonight. You okay? You ducked out of there like the devil was after you. :-(_

I froze, wrestling against the notion of just figuring screw it and inviting him over to celebrate belatedly, one-on-one, acknowledging that I _was_ grateful for his existence. Maybe I’d even allow it to evolve into _Celebrating._ Maybe minus kissing, since I suspected I was sick (ha. Yeah. Sick.) I heaved a sigh, and pressed the phone against my forehead, gritting my teeth.

Jesus Christ.

 _That_ was what I wanted. I wanted him to come over. I wanted it to evolve. I wanted to explore the _mores_ of this shifting friendship. I wanted to cozy into his neck, inhale the familiar scent of the Aveda cologne, absorb his warmth, take comfort in the sound of his voice, ride the enjoyment of his company. Get to _know_ him even more, in every area, intimately, romantically, physically.

Half-heartedly, I sent out a wordless apology to Wally.

Okay. So it wasn’t like I could deceive anyone to that end. I had, in fact, tapped into the book he’d gotten me that Nik and Mila penned, flipping to the chapter titled “Give Yourself a Hand,” and, experimenting with the “clitoral stimulation oil,” I’d gone ahead and done what the chapter said. Minus Smilla. (Sorry, Smilla.)

And here’s the rub (ha) — instead of my standard fantasy of rescuing Chris-Hemsworth-Thor from the clutches of some slimy monster and having him bend me over after to thank-fuck me with his Asgardian super-strength, I kept visualizing Dick, hearing his voice, feeling the thick, heavy, softness of his hair, tasting the smoothness of his skin. He continually interrupted my accustomed reverie like a rude, uncultured, attention-seeking child.

And that happened more than once. With Smilla, sans Smilla. 

I flopped over in bed, finally opening myself up to the sickening realization that undeniably, incontestably, _I wanted him,_ Richard John Grayson, in all of his facets, to hell with what others would say, to hell with stupid-ass complications, and frankly, to hell with the fact that he was Wally’s best friend, and that some might have considered this want to be a stark betrayal. Myself included.

The thing was, I knew I didn’t need to worry about any of the above. I was too late. I’d made my choice — the safe one, the unrisky one, the uncomplicated one — and now I was seeing the bare, unhidden _face_ of that choice: Jealous, lonely, unfulfilled, wanting. While Zatanna chipped her teeth on Dick’s beautiful lingam, and he filled his strong, callused hands with her flawless breasts.

That _I_ wasn’t the one sucking his dick in celebration of his twenty-second year on the planet was my own damn fault. “Fear cuts deeper than swords,” as the quote goes. And wasn’t _that_ the truth? It was my fear that landed me where I was, spearing unseen (but so profoundly _felt_ ) through my heart and sticking me to the surface of the bed in the lonesome safety of my own drafty, creaky bedroom at my mother’s apartment. 

Morose beyond belief, I sent him a text in return. 

_I’m good,_ I wrote. _Just needed to toss my cookies. Haven’t been feeling well._

I got a response quickly — way faster than I would have expected, considering that he was beyond a doubt enjoying a well-deserved fuckathon with our exceptionally hot friend.

 _Awwwww, oh no. :-(_ _Do you need anything? Meds, water, soup, Ghibli movies, the healing power of my charm?_

 _No,_ I replied, accepting with ill grace that my window of opportunity had slammed shut (painfully onto my figurative fingers.) _Just a lot of sleep. Happy Birthday_

I didn’t intend to be stand-offish, or to aggressively chop block him. I just couldn’t bring myself to feign cheerfulness, knowing that he was getting off with Zatanna while I made like a total chump and pined over him, sick, alone, in bed — a trap of my own making. 

And now, on the floor of the bathroom, reality giving me a sound smack in the kisser, I ogled Zatanna. Dick had _turned her down?_

“Wait — he did?” I said in disbelief. 

Zatanna nodded. “Oh, yeah, Artemis, he flat-out _stonewalled_ me.”

“For real?”

By now, she was chuckling a bit. “Did he ever. Given how he did it, like how he worded it, I figured there was, you know, a Hopeful in his life, I just didn’t realize…” She inclined her head. “How long has this been a Thing, him and you?”

I rubbed my achy, dribbling forehead with my clammy fingers. “It hasn’t been a Thing,” I maintained. “It was just the one time. Wally’s birthday. We were drunk.”

“Did he use a condom or anything?” M’gann asked.

“See, that’s just it,” I snapped, touchy as all get out, totally on the defense. “I’m on the goddamn pill — I have _no_ idea how the hell this happened.”

“He didn’t, did he,” M’gann stated affirmatively.

“No, genius, he didn’t,” I hissed. “ _God.”_

“Let’s not worry about the details right now,” Zatanna said placatingly. “Are you going to call him?”

I heaved a loud sigh. “I… have _no_ idea,” I said. “I’m just… I mean… I can’t even _fathom_ the idea of getting Dick involved. Not yet. God, I don’t even know if I’m _keeping_ this thing. And if that’s the case, I’m not calling him at all — no way, no how.” I rubbed at my temples, stubbornly, endlessly pounding. “I couldn’t stand breaking his heart like that after ignoring him for almost a month and a half.”

“Maybe he wouldn't be heartbroken,” offered M’gann, lifting a shoulder.

I glowered at her.

“Okay, he would,” she ceded. “I was just trying to make you feel better, not doing a very good job of it. Anyway… For all he’s got a bit of a rep, at the end of the day, Dick really values family.”

“That tends to happen when your parents and your aunt and your cousin all die horribly at the same time right in front of you,” I said, shaking my head. “Or… when your mom winds up crippled and lands in jail and your sister runs out on you and then your dad…” 

I trailed off, some sort of transcendent epiphany coming over me in that moment, and then I exploded all at once into more tears as my epochal, earth-shattering decision just plowed over me right there like a combine harvester. And I just rolled beneath its weight, entirely powerless to stop it.

“I’m keeping it,” I announced in a ragged, shaking voice. “I’m keeping the baby. _I’m keeping it.”_

M’gann laid a hand on my shoulder, and Zatanna nodded.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Then you need to call him.”

  
  


*******

  
  


I held my phone, its heft quivering in my unsteady hand, my thumb hovering over the message window.

“It’s okay, Arty,” M’gann told me reassuringly from her seat on Jade’s former bed. “It’ll be okay. Even if Dick’s freaking out on the inside, he’ll never let you sink or face this by yourself.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered. “Him sticking by me like I’m some tragedy. Or something he needs to fix or save.” I shook my head. “Anyway. Here goes nothing…”

I thumbed in a text to Dick.

 _Yo,_ I typed. _You free for a minute?_

I blinked when the reply came less than a minute following. Again, faster than expected.

 _Sure, what’s up?_

I chewed my lip, and then sent, _Want to FaceTime? Just wanted to hit you up about something real quick._

I took a deep, deep breath when I got the response.

_Yeah, sure, everything okay? Want me to call you?_

I replied, _That’s fine, sure._

When the call came, I ran a hand over my messy hair in a failed effort to smooth it down, and then hit the accept prompt.

I fucking melted in spite of myself when he smiled, all teeth and spright and cuteness, when the feed settled. 

“Heyyyyy, Arty,” he said jubilantly.

Immediately disarmed, I smiled, and pushed my hair over my shoulder. “Hello,” I offered a little lamely.

“How’ve you been, lady?” he asked. “Feels like _forever_ since I talked to you last.”

Ugh. The _guilt._

“Yeah, sorry, just been… you know, busy. Transferring and moving and all that. I know you offered to help with that part of things, it’s just been —” I broke off before I could start stuttering and babbling. “It’s just been nuts.”

“No worries,” he told me lightly. He sobered a little, focusing hard on the screen. “You okay? You look a little distraught.”

M’gann and Zatanna both stared, leaning toward me, expressions growing baited.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” I said flippantly. “Just… uh, just… Life. You know.”

“You’re not like, in distress or anything?”

“No, I’m perfectly traught.”

He grinned. “You know, I can’t figure out how distressed and stressed are so closely related definition-wise, when distressed has the prefix that’s supposed to indicate an opposite.” I saw him stretch an arm over his head. “It completely throws off my theories on linguistics, you know?”

I couldn’t help chuckling. “The opposite of stressed has you distressed.”

He laughed. “Speaking of stressed and distressed. What’s up? You said you wanted to talk?”

“Oh, yeah,” I exhaled. “Umm… I…” And then the train got rolling, creaky and stunted, all busted brakes and uneven rails, barreling along beyond any conducting of mine whatsoever. “I am going to the Woodland Lights display with Jade and Roy and Lian on Friday, and… I wondered if you… maybe wanted to come. Pair the spare kind of thing.”

My words were issued with fastidious enunciation, all carefully, specifically articulated, sounding staged and plotted. Totally giving away the fact that I rucked my way through some serious nerves. 

Zatanna made the slashing motion across her throat, vehemently shaking her head. M’gann, for her part, just slowly inclined her head from side to side, her eyes wide and features set. _No,_ she mouthed. 

I lowered the phone for a moment, and jerked my own head, dismissing them both. 

“Sorry,” I said, returning to the call. “Mom came snooping.”

Dick gave me one of his easy, stupid-hot smiles. “That’s all right. Hi, Mama Crock. What time on Friday?”

“Uh… I think we’re all meeting here at around six. We’re going to have dinner first and then we’ll head to the lights display.”

“All righty, I’m in like flint,” he said cheerfully. “See you on Friday at six, unless we get paged first.”

I smiled back. “Okay. See you then. Umm… Thanks for sparing me being a third wheel. You’re a pal.”

His smile widened in return. “No problem. Thank _you_ for the invite and the call.”

I paused. “Umm… You’re welcome?”

“I mean it,” he told me. “Not to sound like a total simp or anything, but I miss you, Artemis.”

I stared at the screen, taken aback. “Oh… Uh.” I tugged at my hair. “…I miss you, too.” I took a breath, and then continued with a wan chuckle, “I’ve actually _really_ missed you. Call _me_ a simp.”

Again, that smile.

Abruptly, I felt just _godawful._ He probably thought I was inviting him on a double date thing. Breaking my silence after weeks of introspection and soul searching, while he patiently waited for me to organize my thoughts and iron out my feelings. And then finally giving him a romantic overture. Which, very clearly indicated by the borderline giddy, beaming expression on his face, he’d wanted — and badly. As if his shafting Zatanna wasn’t indication enough. 

“Well,” he told me, his voice warm, sweet, gentle; simultaneously salt and salve rubbed into the wounds of my regret. “That changes Friday. I’ll see you then.”

I nodded. “See you then.”

We hung up, and I sighed. Loudly. 

“Now,” Zatanna observed dryly, “you need to figure out how you’re going to tell him with your sister and brother-in-law and niece there.”

I cast her a positively withering glare. 

_And… once again… here goes nothing,_ I thought with another sigh.

I texted Jade.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to beta and dear friend Chibi_Nightowl. <3 :-)
> 
> Worry not, a thing called "plot" is developing beyond this exhausted trope. :D Stay tuned! <3 
> 
> Much love, all! <3


	5. 9-22-19

  


_September 22, 2019_

  
  


_Dick,_

_A little behind, apologies. Got wrapped up in some, y’know, BUSINESS. Technically have three jobs at this point (I know you know that, why am I saying it…)_

_Anyway. The one thing I haven’t seemed to be able to master is finding the time to cook. I don’t know how Jason does it — always whipping up those stupid magnificent feasts of his that he keeps in his fridge to graze on for the week. I mean, come on. The guy volunteers, has his day job puttering around with Babs at the library (such a… quiet job for him), has his *cough* night job, and reads like three books in as many days without cease. Just… HOW._

_That being said, though, it’s not that I don’t know HOW to cook — I just never really had the resources to kind of hone that skill, and these days, it’s a time issue. But that I enjoy doing it gave me some common ground with your brother early on, if you recall. That, and the fact that he’d actually read some of Mac Dinh Chi’s works._

_So… I’m sure you remember when he and Alfred and I taught you how to cook (sort of.) In your words, “a life skill that abruptly presented its necessity.” We went to Wayne Manor for the afternoon to get you started, and although I was determined to actively assist in your culinary endeavors, Alfred insisted I not do a thing, since I was looking, “I daresay, Miss Artemis, a bit peaked.” I appeased him and myself by sitting and languidly slicing tomatoes, all the while offering suggestions and input from my perch on the barstool at the kitchen island._

_Alfred and Jason had you begin with something theoretically simple — tomato soup and grilled cheese. Kid food (very appropriate.) Except… this wasn’t a can of microwaved Campbell’s, tepid in a blistering hot bowl, served alongside a Wonder Bread/Kraft cheese sandwich. This was some suped up thing with cheese that probably cost more than my mom’s rent, fatass bacon slices, avocado, homemade aioli that Jason took care of in under five minutes like presto, aioli, and tomato (can you even call it a grilled cheese at that point?) And alongside that, Alfred had you roasting whole tomatoes to make scratch tomato soup._

“ _Um… Did anyone hear the part where I said something SIMPLE? That won’t have me emulating a freaking atom bomb in the kitchen?” you’d asked, horrified at the menu._

“ _Hit the ground running, Master Dick, if you can handle this, you’ll be in excellent condition for your future projects in the kitchen,” Alfred maintained as you floundered through chopping basil. “That aside, Miss Artemis mentioned to me that tomato soup has rather piqued her interest, and there is none better than my roasted tomato bisque, if I do say so myself.”_

“ _Can’t argue that,” you said._

_I just sat and watched in something like awe as I sliced tomatoes for the sandwiches. It was all so NEW to me, the poor girl from the Bowery — this abundance of high quality, expensive food. I could smell the bread from across that giant kitchen as Jason sliced it, and not just thanks to my hormone-induced drug dog nose. The bacon was more meat than water — wrapped in paper, not slimy (I’d never seen raw bacon that wasn’t a big floppy slime streak.) My idea of indulgence growing up was like… parmesan cheese on plain spaghetti. Gotham Academy’s cafeteria food was like a five-star restaurant to me. My mom really did her best when she got out of the clink, cooking nightly from her chair, stretching the ingredients in really creative ways, clipping deals like those loons from Extreme Couponing. A huge change from Dad, who just… kind of left me to my own devices, leaving a couple of wadded bills on the counter before he went poof into the night on some job or another, going broker than the Ten Commandments blowing the evening’s ill-gotten gain getting plowed with some skeazy hooker. But while Mom and I had ENOUGH, it still wasn’t much, or varied, or a sufficient amount to consume mindlessly. Pizza was a total rarity._

_I digress._

_So I asked if you’d ever really COOKED before, since you just looked totally stranded. All flummoxed and crap by even simple stuff like cooking bacon._

“ _Uh, if pouring cereal is cooking,” you’d said._

“ _You’ve never even made yourself some scrambled eggs?” Jason asked._

“ _I’ve burned myself some scrambled eggs,” you answered._

“ _Dude, if you can’t even make scrambled eggs…” Jason shook his head like a woebegone teacher of a problem child._

“ _I,” you announced importantly, “do not have TIME to cook. I barely have time to EAT.”_

“ _I’m gonna Bat slap the crap outta you, you basic-ass bitch,” Jason said, even as he deftly pitted, peeled, and sliced an avocado._

“ _So cultured,” you said._

“ _Pinnacle of class,” said Alfred. “The Class-Master… And Sass-Master, as the young ones of today like to say.”_

“ _Damn right,” Jay said, with that big, crooked grin of his._

“ _Is cooking always so…” You broke off and studied Alfred as he pulled the tomatoes for the soup from the oven and threw them in a food processor. The smell was all at once nauseating and tantalizing._

“ _Complex?” Alfred asked._

“ _Artful,” you said, and I swear you looked BASHFUL._

“ _If you wanna do it right,” Jason told you. “Gotta get creative, Dickie.”_

“ _Dude, I’m about as creative as a rock,” you said. “Not that I don’t APPRECIATE creativity, but being a fanboy doesn’t mean I understand a THING about the creative process.”_

“ _Yep, you’re a binary asshole,” said Jason._

_You rattled off a bunch of ones and zeros (later, you informed me that the translation was “Screw you.” So many ones and zeros for something so perfunctory.)_

“ _Well, I don’t speak ancient Geek, but thanks, anyway,” said Jason._

_Dinner wound up being so damn good I ate more in that sitting than I think I had over the course of the entire week combined. Even if you struggled on your maiden voyage, you turned out some damn fine eats. Best yet? I kept it down — all of it. Normally, if I wound up overeating on a random occasion, I lost hold of it in the middle of the night. Every. Freaking. Time. And on those nights I binged uninhibited on something, you said you couldn’t bring yourself to stop me because you were just so happy that I ATE, but then you wouldn’t sleep, knowing a colorful trip to the bathroom around 1am was inevitable. I’d get so pissy and about bite your head off when you’d show up as I lay there with my head stuck in the toilet (I was embarrassed, okay?) But… I also don’t know how I’d have survived that phase of things without you sticking by me through those miserable bouts of ralphing, holding my hair for me and then giving me water and towels and whatnot when I was done. Sorry for what I said when I was barfing, ha ha._

_Anyway, we were all so proud of you for turning out such an overwhelming success on your first kitchen enterprise, that Alfred and Jay took to giving you little cooking tasks each week, which you applied yourself to with the dedication of a religious fanatic. I often hopped in and we’d cook together, holding those stupid little goofy conversations that I often caught myself looking forward to when I was at work or class during the day._

_You know, you really worried ENDLESSLY about the kind of dad you’d make. Sometimes the fretting annoyed me, because I definitely never did. And no, that’s not owing to the fact that my bar was set exceptionally low regarding quality father material. :P I KNEW you’d be Superdad, and not just because you lost yours and you wouldn’t want your own child to face life without a father._

_Every damn molecule in your body is wired to care for others, and a lot of the time, at your own expense — at the cost of your own happiness, at the cost of your health, at the cost of your personal life, even. Wally knew that all too well, and worried himself sick about you. And in typical fashion, got his redhead up (he wasn’t always the most graceful or tactful when it came to expression. But the fact is… he lashed out at you because he CARED about you, Dick. Angry as he apparently got, he was AFRAID. He didn’t want to lose you any more than he wanted to lose me.)_

_But… you are who you are, you do what you do. Fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, provide for those in need, guide those who are lost. These are all continuous, beneath-the-surface mantras, driving you to work yourself into total exhaustion as you try to hold everything and everyone around you together. It’s really like an addiction, isn’t it… this feeling of being NEEDED. Who are you, if you’re not needed in some way? So much of your sense of self is incumbent on what you’re able to DO for others. Dinah said it’s your way of compensating for the fact that you were powerless to save your family when they needed you. So… wherever the NEED goes, you follow._

_Babe, I stressed repeatedly to you that I wished you’d just hang back and let yourself be on the receiving end of some much-needed TLC, to acknowledge your own needs for once, but my attempts at role reversal failed PDQ when I’d have to excuse myself to puke immediately after remonstrating at you._

_Given that you’re perfectly capable of enough recalcitrance to rival Wally and Bruce, you stubborn ass, you might not be able to wrap your head around the idea of letting go and allowing yourself — just one time — to be cared for, but it’s my hope that you’ll chuck those hangups, and just let me take care of you. Someday. You need it. You deserve it._

_Another topic to discuss later…_

_In the meantime, at least try to get some GOOD quality rest. I mean it._

_More to come._

_Love,_

_Artemis_


	6. 12-21-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all!
> 
> Posting early...?
> 
> Why, yes! Got some excellent news... Going to be homeowners as of June 9th! Since I'm so crazy-stupid excited, I'm just going to gush here and post early! <3 :D
> 
> Enjoy, all! <3 ^_^
> 
> Much love. :-)
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo  
> ~EF <3

December 21, 2018

_Dick_

I’m not one to get overly hung up on what I wear on a daily basis — generally, I _represent_ with my duds. Fandom, geekery, nerdiness, whatever. My wardrobe is casual, and if you look in my closet, it’s _dork_ in there. Not to sound cocky or vain or anything, but I don’t really need to work overly hard to make myself presentable. Making good pals with my shower and a toothbrush is plenty sufficient. And with date wear, it’s pretty much a button-down and a pair of jeans with no rips. The end. I usually don’t even bother to police _which_ button-down graces my torso. Is it clean and does it have all of its buttons accounted for? Cool, toss that bitch on.

But that night, I was going out with _Artemis._ Okay, and her family, but I didn’t want to look like a total gimp. It was a fine line I was treading — not wanting to look like I was trying to impress her, not wanting to look like I _wasn’t_ trying to impress her. I knew this wasn’t, you know, a _daaaaate —_ but the fact remained. I was every bit as stoked for, and anxious about, this little outing as I would have been for an affirmed, actual date.

Artemis hadn’t spoken to me much since the day after our ill-advised drunken impulse sex, and the increasingly scant times we did speak, she was friendly enough, but I didn’t miss the discomfiture and tension that rolled from her in palpable waves. Sequentially, it grew plain to read in large text that she needed some space. 

It sucked — and a _fat_ one — but I backed off, knowing that she wrangled with all the same guilt and shame, that she shared the sense that we’d betrayed Wally in some way. I didn’t know if she was inwardly locked in combat with her _feelings_ like I was, but in either case, she had to have reeled from the whole thing as much as I did — in fact, more so. And Artemis has always dealt with things in her own way — she needs time and _patience_ to deal with stuff like this. So… respectfully, I gave her the space she needed to work things through. She was my friend, and I loved her, no matter what the nature of our relationship was, or what I inwardly wished with all my being it would be. (My bad, Wally.) I’d still be there when she figured things out.

Ugh, I _missed_ her, though. That interim was about as much fun as a 10-inch spiky dildo embedded as deep. I thought about her _all_ the time, every single tiny stupid thing that popped up in my path reminding me of her in some way. And — the shame (cue dingling bell) — damn near daily I yanked my cock in the shower until I came shouting, my line of sight funneled down _always_ to a clear, fully realized image of her face under me. There had to be DNA evidence all over my shower, embedded in the grout between the tiles, since, ummm, that little image popped up while I showered more than once. 

God damn. Sorry, Wally. _So_ sorry.

Over time, just being in the same room with her (usually for briefings/debriefings, mission plans, etc., so exciting), interacting and working together on the field — those interludes took on an almost nutritive quality. I took them in, every time, like a fern takes in sunlight. And after a while, I started praying every freaking morning we’d get paged to the Watchtower, because these interactions were all I had.

Well, there was one upside that came from this unenjoyable period. I _finally_ made up with Barbara — effectively this time. Being on sort of outs with Artemis reminded me that I should really make an effort to patch things up with Babs before _two_ treasured relationships teetered and fell. It was hard at first, threatening more spats as our grievances came directly to the fore, but… to my astonishment, we hashed out our crap — and _resolved_ it. The conversation flowed amicably and humorously from there, and I found myself pretty stupid-happy — Artemis wasn’t the only woman I’d missed in recent months. And strangely, when I bound up that one thread left dangling, I was perfectly content with the direction of our relationship, Artemis or no Artemis. 

And with the support of one of my oldest confidants restored, I gave way under an immense, direly needed outpouring. I didn’t give Artemis away, but I did share with Babs the bare bones of what I was uh, _dealing with_ over the last weeks. I was taken aback to see that she appeared relieved to hear that I’d discovered some feelings for someone, although some of her advice for me was a little unsavory.

“Dick, I don’t know _why_ it’s so taboo, this relationship — I can only assume she’s married or something — but you have three options here, with this person,” she had said, setting her coffee down. She lifted her hand, and counted on her fingers. “One, you _talk_ to her. Like, openly communicate. The girls complain all the time that their guys were painfully direct — up until they started dating. Be different. Level with her.”

I nodded, studying my coffee mug as she went on.

“That, though, depending on the tenuousness of the situation, might scare her off, so… Bear that in mind.” She shrugged. “Anyway, two, you keep on doing what you’re doing — respect her space and her need to kind of work things out on her own. When she’s ready, she’ll come to you, or at least drop a hint that she’s ready. To that end, you be ready to _take_ that hint if and when it comes.” 

“Okay.”

“Three, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but… you let her go. I know that’s kind of foreign territory for you — I mean, you could have pretty much any woman you want, I know you get offers on the reg — but if she’s the one person not open to the idea of a relationship with you, accept that and move on. Trust me, the faster the better.”

My heart sank, but I nodded. I opted for Option Two.

So when Artemis showed up for my birthday with a lavish pile of gifts (which I guiltily knew had to stress her modest bank account), all of my muscles strung themselves up with anticipation and… yes, _hope_. Her entry gave me the prayer that this night would mark the moment our friendship _healed,_ that the upturn settled, and we could go back to the way things were before unwisely stemming the intoxicated rose — whatever my own _feelings_ might have been. My heart freaking soared when she approached me, her body language tolerably open, coming so close I caught the familiar scent of the lotion she used, its aroma suffusing my sensories with a nostalgic comfort. Elated, I was about to reach out and hug her, making it clear that I was wide open for business, but I just rammed smack into the same proverbial, icy walls that she’d had up since after Wally’s birthday. 

Still, she was _there,_ and that counted for something. I held onto that little hopeful flicker, jealously, stubbornly clinging to it. Then, seemingly out of the freaking Upside-Down, she up and all but stomped out after less than five minutes tops. 

I totally deflated. 

She mentioned later that she was sick, which I couldn’t really hold against her or get mad at, and in spite of my complete bafflement, I softened. So her text mentioned, she hadn’t felt well for a while — my guess was that she’d been fighting the bug going around Blüdhaven and Gotham. It _was_ a bad one. And would explain a lot. It blew that she was sick, but the knowledge mollified me somewhat. I made a minor, wholly friendly overture via text — which she flatly rebuffed. 

…Game over. 

Alone in my apartment, I stared at my phone, crushed and defeated, overcome all at once by a nearly insurmountable hurt. Even though I’d been surrounded by people for most of the evening, I was… _lonely._ Despondent, even. I had no clue which way was up, down, sideways, figure-eight, anything — I was just _flummoxed_ by how she treated me. God damn it, I wanted my friend back — even if she didn’t return my half-formed, totally inappropriate, borderline illicit feelings, I just wanted to be a piece of furniture in her life, in whatever capacity she’d have me.

That she might not even have wanted my friendship anymore? Yeah. That _hurt._

I didn’t really know _what_ I expected, though, following the massive earthquake that rocked the foundations of our once enduring friendship — but I definitely didn’t expect to get flat-out _repudiated_ like that. She was one of my closest friends, if not my closest — surely we could get past one drunken flub, right? Apparently, contrary to what she said just before It Happened, she regretted the hell out of the whole thing. For reasons that… okay, I repeat, I completely understood — but that didn’t mean it didn’t leave me totally gutted.

Option Two didn’t work out. So… Options One or Three. But I really couldn’t keep misleading myself by then — I _knew_ the one choice left to me.

Option Three.

“ _You let her go.”_

And, with a permeating ache that felt too much like heartbreak… I did.

So when Artemis texted me a few weeks after my birthday as I lay listlessly playing _The Last of Us,_ ventilating all of my retrograde frustration and angst on blasting fungus zombies and asshole humans, I froze, locked in a quivering zone between completely overjoyed and totally bollixed. So she said, she wanted to talk — and if this was an opportunity to hash things out and rekindle our tragically guttering friendship, I’d be a total jackass not to jump all over it. And I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my natural life if I chose to hold onto my anger and resentment.

It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, though, because when her beautiful face popped up on my iPhone screen and she invited me to come along with her and her family to Gotham’s annual Christmas lights festival, every inch of anger and injury that I’d experienced in the month or so previous just went on an epic nosedive out of the window. I melted. So long, goodbye, been nice knowing you, Dickie.

“ _Be ready to take that hint, if and when it comes.”_

Hint enthusiastically taken — in whatever context she intended. At this point, I’d take what I could get.

Pathetic. I know. Major new territory.

And then… Clothing. That little conundrum.

Artemis tended to theme my birthday and Christmas gifts — giving me one round on my birthday, and a second, related round on the holiday. This year, the theme was _Attack on Titan._ Well, I figured, there wasn’t a better way to toe the line here and express goodwill than by sporting one of her gifts, so… Scouting Legion hoodie it was. Considering there would be plenty of coatless moments throughout the evening, she’d see it advertised. More casual than a button-down, but equally significant.

It was snowy — the start of the endless snow that plagued Gotham and Blüdhaven in the winter of 2018-2019 — but it wasn’t so bad I couldn’t fire up the Tomahawk. Another extension of goodwill toward my bestie — I knew she’d _leap_ at a ride, even in the cold. I obeyed city ordinance by following the speed limit at least as I headed to Gotham, and arrived outside her mother’s apartment a few minutes early.

“You _do_ know you’re in the Bowery, right?”

I smiled, and looked up as I chained up the bike. 

“That,” I said, shaking the chain, “is why this is incendiary. Courtesy of Fox.”

Roy shook his head, also smiling in his wry, uncommon way. “Some things never change. Wayne paranoia, for one. ”

“Hey, you _do_ know we’re in the Bowery, right?” I said lightly, and drew him in for a man-hug. Falling into step beside him as we walked up to the door, I added, “It’s not actually incendiary. The bike’s already of questionable enough legality as it is. How’ve you been, dude?”

“Decent enough,” he replied. “Keeping busy with the girls. Plural. Jade I think keeps me busier than Lian most days.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, smirking. “Most nights, too, I bet.”

“I admit nothing,” he said, his smile widening. 

We headed inside, and I felt a touch of nerves when my eyes fell on my Not-Date for the evening. 

Artemis was playing with Lian on the floor of the living area, Brucely snoozing a ways off on a worn dog bed, while Jade argued about something with their mother from the kitchen. 

“Oh, hey,” Artemis said dryly, looking up from the toy she held in one hand, “given the state of things, you’d probably have been safer and warmer waiting outside.” 

“We’ll take our chances,” said Roy. “It’s not the first storm in a teacup we’ll have weathered between those two. You girls about ready?”

“Well, _we_ are,” said Artemis, rising up, and lifting Lian to situate the girl on her hip. “Can’t speak for Thing One and Thing Two in there.” Finally, she looked at me, and although the color in her face rose a bit — from excitement, nervousness, happiness, I couldn’t say — she smiled. And I melted… Again. “Hey, Boy Wonder.”

“What’s going on, Tiger,” I said easily. 

Tiger had become a pet name of sorts, partly referring to her vigilante identity, partly teasing her over her fiery personality. 

“You’re looking at it,” she said, responding to some unintelligible three-year-old speak from Lian with an open-mouthed grin. “Might as well just call me Mom at this point…”

“Yeah… Sorry about asking you to sit so much lately, Artemis,” Roy said. 

She shook her head. “I don’t mind, Roy. It’s for a good cause.” She nuzzled Lian’s hair, and then put her down. I gave the kid a smile and wave, warming when she returned the gesture, curiously hovering at Artemis’ leg. 

“Man, she’s getting big, Roy,” I observed. 

“Getting bigger every day,” he agreed.

“They grow too fast,” Artemis said, laying a hand on Lian’s dark hair. “Let’s get your coat on, Short Stack.”

Jade joined us about then, noncommittally giving me a bit of a bored greeting. She grabbed her coat and marched toward the door. 

“Who came out on top this time?” Roy asked, following her, taking Lian’s hand. 

“Who do you think?” Jade asked, a smirk in her voice.

“The politically correct answer, or the real one?” 

“Cute,” said Jade. “Get a move on, young ones… We don’t wish to _fight crowds_ , do we? It _is_ our night off.”

Artemis and I chuckled a bit, and followed Jade and Co. onto the sidewalk outside. 

We agreed to walk to our destinations. The restaurant we planned on frequenting and the festival weren’t overly far away. Keeping pace beside Artemis, I glanced over at her. She looked… just…

Okay. Beautiful’s cliché, I get it. But _God,_ she looked it. Her hair hung freely around her arms and shoulders, trailing down her back in a soft, glimmering cascade, her glowing face accentuated by an understated makeup job. She was dressed a little girlier than her norm, all pinks and grays. It matched the freshness in her cheeks, her blush deepening with the cold. Wally had really hit the jackpot — something I never told him, for fear he’d take it wrongly. 

Ha. I wondered what he’d say if he saw us then. Stomping the guilt, anticipating an exploding toilet later, I ran a hand over my hair, shaking some of the accumulating snow from its tresses. 

“So…” I said amiably, breaking the quiet. “How are things?”

She smiled up at me. Melt, melt, melt. I’d be a liquid state of matter before the end of the night. 

“Things are things,” she said, lightly enough. “Mostly moved back home. Sometimes I feel like it was a good idea, sometimes I don’t. You know how my mom gets — total slavedriver. I’ll be done with grad school in May, and she’s already asking if I have jobs lined up. I _just_ finished exams, you know? But then again, maybe it drives me batshit because I know on _some_ level she’s right, and I _do_ need to start thinking about this stuff.”

“Bruce can always use a good translator,” I suggested. 

“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ll save _that_ resource for when I’m living in a box under a bridge. A literal troll collecting fees from unlucky travelers.”

“You can always just troll the Internet and make money that way. There’s more in advertising space than there is in leaping out FNAF-style at the Three Billy Goats Gruff.”

“Clever,” she said, grinning. “Anyway, like I said. I’ll wait on that, not that I think working for Wayne Enterprises would _ever_ be an unwise career move. And my mom would… oh, my God, Dick. My mom would possibly be _satisfied_ with something.”

I laughed, but, thinking with a pang on my own mom, I was serious when I told her, “Your mom already _is_ satisfied, Artemis. Honestly… I think a lot of her slave-driving just comes from worrying. Can’t blame her, I mean, what’s _she_ up to these days?” I gestured toward Jade. “You’re _never_ going to convince me she’s traded in that freaky cat mask for a minivan and soccer practice.”

“Oh, don’t go making me get all understanding regarding my mom, ya dang Boy Scout,” Artemis said, nudging me. “Boy Wonder Scout? Anyway. While Jade hasn’t exactly hung up her mask… I have it on good authority, a.k.a. my mom —” she lowered her voice to a whisper, and leaned toward with me with her hand cupped over her mouth, “ _that she drives a minivan now.”_

“Shut the front minivan door…” I clapped my hands over my mouth.

“Yep…”

“Well. Slap my ass and call me Sally. I guess it _would_ come in handy when the time came to transport the kiddos _and_ the bodies, though…” I said. “All the while rocking out to One Republic, since she’s not like a regular mom —” here, Artemis joined me, “she’s a _cool_ mom!” I laughed. “The family-slash-murder van… Now _there's_ an infomercial waiting to happen.”

Artemis giggled, and then adopted the tone of an infomercial narrator. “The Dodge Grand Murdervan, perfectly sized to accommodate your whole family… or the pile of bodies from your latest heist! With optional extra dark tint, so _no one_ can see the hapless yuppies you have just kidnapped for ransom!”

“With removable rear seats for your camping equipment… _or_ to facilitate all of your corpse disposal needs!” I added.

“With a soundproofed storage compartment so that _no one_ can hear your victims scream!” Artemis said through her own laughter. She drew up short, her laughter abruptly guttering. “Oh, Dick, this is _terrible —_ I just realized I could totally picture Harley Quinn narrating actual murder van infomercials.”

“Awwwwwww, no!” I cried, laughing, totally scandalized. 

She laughed, and nudged me. “Well, am I wrong?”

I busted out my best Brooklynese. “Just remembah, mistah, ya can’t dissolve bodies in pawcelain tubs! Heyah’s the back bed with plenty-a space ta put ya polyethylene bins!” 

“…Gross. I don’t think I can even add to that,” Artemis chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, well, if we kept going, Jade was bound to overhear us at some point — if she didn’t already and is up there just waiting to pounce on me for it. She _has_ left the life behind now… I mean, she still works as Cheshire, but even if she keeps her jobs close to the vest, I know they’re not of the _nefarious_ variety, at least. She and Roy work together pretty often these days.”

“I’ll quit joking about it, then,” I told her. “I have to say, though, the whole thing’s got me _really seriously_ thinking — maybe Bruce should shift gears and outfit himself a new Batmobile out of a minivan. Sounds like one of those things comes with a pretty tantalizing host of advantages.”

She laughed, perceptibly more at ease. I relaxed, too, by now heartened significantly myself. The conversation continued to flow, growing more natural, returning to our characteristic lighthearted enjoyment. 

At the restaurant, Artemis was overtly delighted that I wore the hoodie she got me — yay! — although her sprightly mood tapered somewhat when we sat down. I couldn’t help noticing that she sifted through her food, appearing a little pale and disinterested. She normally demolished whatever was put in front of her. Alfred routinely asked if I was bringing her to the manor, since, so he put it more than once, “she vindicated his culinary skills.” That night, though, she barely touched a thing.

“You okay?” I asked, concerned. 

“I’m fine,” she assured me, setting down her fork. “Just isn’t hitting the spot, I guess.”

“Want some of mine?” I offered. 

She looked _green._ I wondered if she wasn’t through being sick yet, and was about to ask if she’d been to the doc when her sister beat me to the punch.

“You _should_ eat, little sis,” said Jade, and although there was something of a taunt in her voice, it wasn’t at all malicious. “And hydrate.”

“Careful, Jade, you’re starting to sound like a mom…” Artemis gibbed right back. 

“The horror,” said Jade. 

I laughed. The contentious, self-serving, adrenaline junkie that I recalled from years previous as a mom _did_ beg a few questions, although from what I’d seen, Jade seemed perfectly natural with Lian. Living proof that people change — or that Jade was never _truly_ a villain to begin with. Hoo hoo, what would dear old dad make of that? 

Artemis and I ended up trading meals, since she took to mine with a bit more enthusiasm than hers, and although I made a move to pick up the check, Roy gave me a look that just about disintegrated me on the spot before I could verbally offer. It occurred to me that my gesture might have unintentionally come off as a bit patronizing. Shamefaced, I humbly offered to at least pick up Artemis’, although she resisted.

I know. Maybe I needed a reminder it wasn’t a _date._

“I ate yours, you ate mine, so… weren’t they _both_ kind of mine in the end?” I reasoned. 

She rolled her eyes, but thanked me. Again, yay!

The Woodland Lights festival has always been popular with Gothamites. It’s an annual come-hell-or-high-water thing with vendor’s booths, games, food trucks (with another pang, I remembered the funnel cake ladies were Wally’s favorite), winter sports like snow volleyball, snow broomball, and hockey, alpine sliding, visits with Santa, etc. The main attraction, though, was the lights display that lit up Robinson Park and the adjoining Wayne Arboretum. Bruce funded a good portion of the event each year through Wayne Enterprises. He and I were always expected to be there on the opening weekend — never a bad time to watch Bruce as he adopted his playboy persona and played “semi-drunken” snow volleyball with a bunch of other paunchy society bigwigs. 

We opted for the festival stuff to start, and it got off on a _great_ foot for me — playing hero to Artemis’ niece. Lian took a fancy to some expensive handmade plushes, begging Roy, then Jade, then Artemis for one, turned down one after the other. Inevitably, her gaze fell to me — and I was all too happy to cough up. 

“You don’t have to do that, Dick,” said Roy, as I produced my billfold. “It’s not even that we can’t afford it — it’s the principle of the thing. It’s too much to be spending on a three-year-old’s plushy that’s just going to fall to pieces and probably get lost in upwards of a week.”

“Come on, Roy, be a pal,” I said, with Lian hanging off the leg of my jeans, dark eyes bright with excitement. “I mean, I rarely look this cool when I’m in civvies — this is a _huge_ opportunity for me.”

He chuckled a bit. “All right, then, fine — be the loaded honorary uncle who spoils her. Just don’t come crying to me when she expects you to get her some exorbitantly priced toy every single time she sees you.”

“You can come crying to me _any time_ , loaded honorary uncle,” Jade said. “Could I get you to do my grocery shopping while you’re at it?”

I grinned at her. “Let me just call my butler and get him right on that…”

Lian about bounced out of her little purple peacoat when I handed her the plush that had stolen her heart — an extravagantly fluffy blue hippo. I felt like such a stud when she squealed and held it to her cheek. 

“Think you have a fanclub, Dick, member of one,” Artemis remarked.

I laughed. “One? I’d better get cracking on some PR.”

“Well, the night is young,” Artemis said. “You might just expand your fandom yet, Boy Wonder.”

We moved onto the game booths, then the food trucks to seek some dessert. “Fanclub now two members strong,” Artemis announced as she destroyed a funnel cake I surprised her with in approximately thirty seconds. Too bad that wasn’t just her dinner. I chuckled, finished mine, and then shared some Tic-Tacs with her as we made our way to the lights display. 

The lights were always a completely resplendent reminder of why wasted electricity can occasionally be a _good_ thing. They lit up in myriad colors and combinations, some flashing, some static, reminiscent of Lothlorien or Pixie Hollow. The lights were softened under a curtain of cottony snow that fell lazily around us, transforming the arboretum into a quiet, slow-moving fantasyland separate from the real world. The night sky overhead was all varying charcoals and golds, illumined by the city surrounding in a muted glow. Jade and Roy took Lian a little ways ahead, and I walked side-by-side with Artemis, our own pace unhurried. We didn’t talk for a while, but didn’t really need to, either, as we looked around us and commented occasionally on the whimsical beauty of the displays. 

Eventually, Artemis walked close enough to me that her arm occasionally brushed mine as it swayed, her steps matching mine. I could smell her sweet, minty perfume. When our hands made unintended contact, I reached over, and, on an impulse, caught hers. She looked up at me, not speaking, and surprised me a little when she laced her chilled fingers through my own. Thrilled, nervous in a _good_ way, I smiled, and we kept walking, hand-in-hand. 

“So, um…” she said after a time, focusing on the snowy ground at our feet. 

“So,” I said cheerfully, my pace bouncy, betraying my excitement.

She sighed. “I don’t mean to kind of take a turn to Serious Town here, but…”

Uh-oh. 

“What’s up?” I asked, hiding the sudden rush of curious apprehension. 

“Just… Look, Dick. I… I’m really sorry I haven’t…” She heaved a sigh. “I don’t know, _talked_ to you more since Wally’s birthday.”

Oh.

“Oh, Arty, it’s okay,” I told her, and meant it. I squeezed her hand.

“It’s really not,” she asserted. “I was a total twat. Like, a _royal_ twat. Twatty McTwatterson, the Twattiest of the Twats.”

I laughed. “That’s a hell of an epithet.”

She smiled, but huffed. “It’s true, though. I really shouldn’t have left you hanging like that.”

“Who said I was hanging?” I said, deadpan.

She paused. “Um —”

I chuckled. “I’m kidding. I _might_ have been hanging — a little. But you really don’t need to apologize or anything, Artemis, okay? I mean that.” Again, I squeezed her hand. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Isn’t there?” she said, and halted in her steps. We’d come to a little alcove with a bench beneath a tall, reaching tree, all lit up with white and pink fairy lights that diffused into a pale glow beneath the snowy blanket. I drew her aside, away from the walkway, where we could stand and talk for a moment. We’d catch up with the others.

“No,” I told her gently. “Really, it’s okay.”

She twisted her lip to the side. “You’re a chump. At least let me say it. It’ll make me feel better.”

“Well… if it’ll make you feel better, fine. I’ll allow it just this once,” I said.

“I’m really sorry,” she told me, with such fervency that I damn near hugged her on the spot. 

I held off a moment, though. “For what?”

“For pretty much slamming the door in your face and keeping it shut for the last month and a half. For chop blocking you on your birthday. For acting like a jealous girlfriend when you kissed Zatanna.”

I paused, and actually had to fight laughter. Was _that_ why she raced out on my birthday party? 

Uh… Wow. 

Well, this familiar territory I could handle. And Artemis and Zatanna were BFFs in any case — surely by now Artemis knew there was nothing there to worry about.

(…Okay. And a part of me about screamed and busted a goddamn cartwheel to learn she might have been jealous. Jealousy meant _feelings._ Ones that I _shared._ Glory be, Hallelujah, Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas to me!)

(Sorry, Wally.)

“You were jealous?” I asked, barely quelling the chortles that struggled to pop loose.

Artemis’ lip quirked. “Uh… If I said no, would you believe me?”

I smiled, which quickly morphed into a grin. “Artemis, if I said there is _nothing_ going on between Zatanna and me, and there _won’t_ be anything going on between us, would you believe me?”

She returned the expression. “I might.”

“Trust me… Ancient history, right there, dating all the way back to the dinosaurs.”

She chuckled. “So Z told me. I felt pretty stupid.”

I shook my head. “Oh, stop. You didn’t need to. She and I have always been kind of touchy-feely, you wouldn’t be the first to get the wrong impression.”

She brightened a little. “And… You and Barb?”

“Now you’re into the Stone Age,” I said. “But still ancient history.”

Her smile broadened a little, and she shifted her weight. 

“Again, though,” she said, looking down. “You deserve better than that, Dick. Being ignored, I mean. I’m _so_ sorry. I just… I guess I just freaked.”

I reached over, and took her hands. 

“Listen, Arty,” I told her gently. “I get it. I _completely_ get it. There’s plenty to freak about, here. I mean… We both miss Wally. We both lost him. We both still _feel_ that loss. It’s everywhere, you know? He was a part of everything you and I shared for a long time. The next step for us… It’s like it doesn’t feel right, but it doesn’t feel wrong, either. It’s _agathokakological.”_

She grimaced quizzically.

“Oh, come on, Linguistics,” I said humorously. “Words are your realm, numbers are mine, remember?”

She rolled her eyes, although she smiled. “Vietnamese words, _kẻ ngốc._ Mostly. Anyway… Greek for good, evil… Umm… Bittersweet? Double-edged sword, blessing and curse?”

“Winner of Jeopardy is Artemis Crock of Gotham City! …I might or might not have heard that word from Jason.” She snorted, and I sobered. “Anyway, for all I’m an _idiot —”_ Her eyebrows lifted, and her smile widened, “I understand. Really, I do. Whatever your feelings are… odds are, I share them, or at least _get_ them.”

She had inched closer to me, and she held my gaze in the slowly falling snow, her face flushed and radiant in the soft, pink light around us. Her hands trembled in mine. “I know.”

 _Okay, now or never, go for it,_ please _forgive me for this, Wally —_

“And… I’m not under any false pretenses here, contrary to what my behavior may have indicated up until now,” I told her, my voice lowering. I felt a tremor start up from my middle. “I know this wasn’t meant to be like… a date or anything. But — I _do_ want you to know. If you ever _want_ to take… you know, that agathokakological next step, or just another step in general, whatever it might be… I’ll be there to take it with you. However you want.” I reached up, and thumbed her cheek. “But… you might want to keep your distance until otherwise informed, since I’m _pretty_ sure Wally will peg my ass with a lightning bolt.”

She laughed, and shook her head. “Dick, why are you so nice?” 

I inclined my head. “…Umm… Vitamins? Sunshine? Birthday close to Christmas?” 

She stepped toward me, and wrapped her arms around my waist, laying her face against my chest. 

I could have _sobbed,_ I was so happy.

Readily, all but floating off the ground in my wholehearted gratitude and unspeakable joy, I enveloped her slight warmth, pulling her still closer to me, resting my cheek on her snow-dampened hair. My heart accelerated, leaping into a tempo run, shivering incandescent volts through the whole of my body. God. How _long_ had I wanted this — even before Wally’s birthday? 

Fuck-fuck-fuck… _so damn sorry,_ Wally… 

“Stop being so _cute,”_ Artemis said into the folds of my coat. “Ugh. Just _stop._ It makes everything impossible.”

I grinned — I could have said the same about her. I drew back so I could look her in the eye. “Sorry, can’t help it. I come by the cuteness naturally. Blame my mom.”

Artemis smiled. “I just blame you.” 

And, oh, hooray, there was _no_ mistaking the look she gave me. My heart went zero gravity and zoomed up to the stratosphere, taking my body, gone to air and light, along with it. One more time, I silently apologized to Wally — rolling all of my future sorries into that one apology, determined now _not_ to worry about ectoplasm bombs in my toilets or Flash lightning from the Great Beyond.

Hint once again taken with mad enthusiasm, I reached over, and cupped her cheek, her skin marble smooth, its surface chilled by the air, flush at the apple. Didn’t hurt to make positively sure… 

“Artemis,” I murmured. 

She inclined her head, angling her face into my palm.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

She snorted. “Oh, my God. You asked. You _dork.”_

We both laughed, and with a breathed, “I’ll take that as a yes,” I leaned toward her, unable to wipe my grin.

Although the blaze in my lower belly was fit to melt the snow and bring an early equatorial summer down on Gotham City, I didn’t want to dive right into a blistering snogfest, instead, slowly leaning toward her, allowing her to meet me halfway, gently closing my lips on hers. After a moment of this light touch, I relaxed my lips, probing hers with a soft press, encouraging her mouth to part. I felt her breath flicker over my skin, expelled in a concentrated, tingling warmth from her nose, as I slid my tongue past her lips, briefly caressing the firm surface of the ticklish spot behind her teeth. Then, I slipped back out, gliding my tongue beneath her upper lip on my way — you know, _teasing._

Her slim body shivered in my arms, drawing up, tightening — oh, God, she was _crying._ I pulled away, thrust from zero gravity to double, instantaneously tottering on panicking. Distressed, confused, I took her face in my hands as the tears streamed in alarming rivulets down her cheeks. 

“Arty, what’s wrong?” I asked, totally bewildered.

 _Oh, shit-shit-shit, it’s too soon, it’s too much, I pushed too hard —_

Artemis wordlessly shook her head, and I released her, holding my hands up in an appeasing gesture. I didn’t want to make her feel caged, or forced. Again, she shook her head, looking up at me with an expression that bordered on pleading.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked, my heart hammering in my ears, my hands shaking visibly in the air where I held them. “…Was it that bad?”

Her tears just kept rushing, and she swiped angrily at her cheeks, her chest hitching. I threw out a desperate Hail Mary, and just hoped it would land.

“Oh, God, are the Tic-Tacs not working?” I said. “I have Altoids, even a straight freaking onion bomb couldn’t overpower those mint-cendiaries!” 

And, oh, _phew,_ there it was — laughter this time, even as her tears kept pouring. I didn’t feel _better,_ seeing her laugh, but it was a glimmering of hope that I hadn’t _completely_ botched this up and made another goddamn wreck of things. 

“Oh, my God, Dick, you stupid dork,” she laugh-sobbed. “ _Please_ stop being so goddamn cute. You actual dick.” She inhaled. “Like I said, it just makes everything so much harder.”

“What’s everything?” I asked gently.

She shook her head, the tears coming double-time now. “Dick — I’m sorry. I’m _so, so_ sorry.”

Now nothing but fully serious, I reached over to her, drawing my thumbs across her cheeks. 

“Hey,” I told her, speaking softly, “it’s okay. Come here.”

And I drew her to me, wrapping her up close, tightening my hold on her as she sagged against my chest. I had _no_ idea what turned on her faucets, but I had a clear sense that I was treading on some mighty thin ice with her in that moment — like if I even brushed the wrong spot with the softest step, I’d go right through. I didn’t know if it was guilt, shame, confusion, or a new influx of grief that was upsetting her, but I wouldn’t push her on this — on touching me, on letting me take her into this territory, on opening up to or sharing with me — that I _did_ know. I would just be there, open, available, _there._ Always her friend first.

She cried into my coat, and I just held her all the more tightly, comforting her the best I could, with one hand on her hair, the other running soothingly up and down her back. Occasionally, I whispered to her, sweet not-nothings, relieved when her sobs eventually tapered, dissipating into little (adorable) hiccups. Finally, she pulled away, and swiped a hand under her nose. 

“Ugh,” she said, laughing wetly. “That’s so embarrassing. I’m _so_ sorry. Before you ask, you didn’t do anything. _This_ time. It’s just been… a really _weird_ week.”

“Stress of exams?” I queried, tugging gently at a lock of her hair. “Or something else?”

“Yeah. Both. Um… Stress of exams, and something else,” she said, and sniffed. “An _overload_ of stress, more like. I’m better now, I promise. I won’t cry this time.”

Heartened somewhat, I kissed her forehead.

“This time?” I asked. 

She smiled, and swept the last of her tears from her cheek. “Uh, yeah… Is it okay if _I_ ask for a Take Two?”

I grinned. “As you wish, milady.”

And, every nerve alive and awake and humming with an all-out magic vibrance, I kissed her again, shivering when she rose eagerly into it. She laced a strong hand in my hair, working her fingers through its untrimmed length. I sighed when she nipped suddenly at my lower lip, and then, finding my tongue, sucked lightly at it with a rhythmic pulse. Heart quickening, I pulled her closer to me with my palm against the flat of her back, relishing her touch as her hand cupped my neck, warm and smooth against the surface of the bare skin there, squeezing with an electrifying pressure. 

“Aunt Artyyyyyy!”

Oh, _shit —_ Lian’s voice, followed by the muffled pattering of her footsteps on the snowy walkway. 

Artemis and I bounded away from each other, but too little, too late — Jade and Roy, and their _just_ three-year-old daughter, freaking caught us red-handed. And red-lipped. _And_ red-faced. 

“Uhhmm. Sorry to interrupt,” Roy said with a chuckle, amused and discomfited all at once. 

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Uh… Hi?”

“Oh, please, don’t let _us_ stop you,” Jade said in her silky voice. “Far be it from _me_ to interfere with young love.”

Artemis gave me a suffering look, and rolled her eyes. 

“To be continued…?” I murmured, smiling.

She grinned in return, her eyes sparkling. “You’re darn right. I think after the last month or so, I racked up a bit of a debt, anyway.”

“We’ll see about debt forgiveness later.”

She moved off to take Lian’s hand, and I warmed all over as she gave me a glance over her shoulder before turning her attention to her sister.

“So,” said Roy, walking alongside me. “You and Artemis?”

I inhaled, and exhaled, still delirious and confused and high and ecstatic off of that intensely charged, up-and-down interlude.

“Not a hundred percent on that yet,” I told him, “but I’m hopeful.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I paused, and looked over at him. “I know what you’re going to say, by the way.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“That… the whole thing is wrong on so many levels. Or at least it should _seem_ wrong.” Agitated, I pushed my hair away from my forehead. “…I don’t know, man.”

“You saying that because of Wally?” he asked.

I was silent a moment, watching the girls as they walked ahead of us, talking with each other, playing with Lian. 

“That’s part of it,” I sighed. “Okay, that’s mostly it. Or… all of it.”

“How so — like since he was your best friend, his girlfriend is off-limits or something?”

“Sort of. Maybe… maybe like there are boundaries there. Ones that will always make this at least _some_ level of inappropriate, regardless of what the circumstances are.”

He frowned. “I see.”

“And… I feel kind of like I’m betraying him. Or betraying his memory, at least. I mean… you’re supposed to _honor_ the memories of the dearly departed, last I checked, and I’m pretty sure getting with your late bestie’s girlfriend is the freaking antithesis of honoring his memory. And I sort of feel like I’m corrupting Artemis into betraying him, too.” I heaved a sigh. “If that makes sense.”

Roy flat-out laughed. “Dick, if there’s one thing I can tell you about _both_ of the women in front of us, it’s that they definitely know their own minds. You couldn’t corrupt Artemis into anything if you _tried.”_

I laughed, too. “Okay, can’t argue there. Artemis has never _not_ known her own mind.”

“Just wait,” Roy said wryly. “Anyway, I get how you’re feeling. Plus, added non-benefit, moving on with Artemis kind of means on some level having to actually _accept_ that Wally’s gone. Which I’ll tell you, pal, that’s a horse of a different color. And probably a topic for a different day.” He brushed the snow from the front of his coat. “That being said, back to the topic at hand — I’ll just give it to you straight here, Dick, it doesn’t really make a lot of sense to sit there beating the crap out of yourself for feelings you didn’t exactly ask for. And it’s also pretty stupid not to take a crack at what could really be a good chance at a decent relationship. And being _happy._ Life’s too damn short — you of all people should know that. You worried about what others are going to say?”

“Maybe a little,” I admitted. “Okay, a lottle. Dude, the guys are going to feed me to some Atlantian monster when they find out about this.” 

Roy was silent a moment.

“I would really hope they wouldn’t, because that’s pretty overkill,” he said, breaking the quiet. “Look, though… I understand where you’re coming from. It’s not like I don’t get how you feel about Wally, either. We _all_ miss him. And I know he was your best friend, and you never got a chance to kind of reconcile the shit that went down between the two of you, so this whole thing’s got to be burning you even worse.”

I snorted. “You can say that again.”

“Okay, this whole thing’s got to be burning you even worse. Anyhow, if you want my bottom line feelings on it… the whole ‘Bro Code’ thing should have gone out with the Ark, in _some_ of its applications, anyway. This isn’t the Hindu Suttee, and it’s _definitely_ not the Old South. You don’t need to both be stuck in black garb from head to toe and forbidden from dances and barbecues and just plain socializing for however many years because of what happened to Wally. And you don’t need to be loyal to him at the expense of your happiness _and_ hers. That’s just… dumb. It’s dumb. Besides, we just covered that Artemis is, as they say, a grown-ass woman — where’s _her_ agency in this? And even if Wally’s sweating it out wherever he is, getting ready to start chucking lightning bolts around like he thinks he’s Thor all of a sudden, you know his biggest thing at the end of the day would be that you’re both happy and cared for while he’s gone. Once the initial rage wore off, I mean. He loved you _both,_ don’t forget. And if he’s not coming back, I repeat — wouldn’t he want you guys to be happy, whatever that meant? I mean, at least he’d know you guys were in good hands. So… I don’t know, you think you and Artemis can do that for each other?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

“Well, there you have it. Just don’t do anything that would have Wally zap you from wherever he is, and I’m sure everyone will be just pleased as punch by this new development — dearly departed included.”

I smiled, oddly comforted. “I… really appreciate you saying that, Roy. Seriously.” I paused. “Umm… How the hell did you get so _worldly?”_

He chuckled and shrugged. “Can’t say I’ve been alive all that long comparatively speaking, but I’ve run the gamut, that’s for damn sure. Life with Jade makes for a lot of experience in a short period.”

“I can imagine,” I said, grinning. “Like I said, though, man. Thanks. I mean it.”

He smiled back at me, and quickened his step to catch up to the girls. When Roy took Lian’s hand, and Jade took her other, Artemis fell back to walk beside me. With a shared smile and zero contrition, I laid an arm across her shoulders, keeping her close to me, sheltering her from the cold.

*******

“Ummm… Is that how we’re getting to Blüdhaven?” asked Artemis, frowning at the Tomahawk. 

I gave her a querying look as I extended the extra helmet to her. “Yeah, the weather’s not _that_ bad, is it?”

She shifted her weight, eyeing the normally beloved bike with obvious trepidation. “Uh… Not _just_ that. I mean, not exactly.”

“What is it?” I asked, inclining my head. “You normally _leap_ at the opportunity for a ride on this thing.” 

“Oh, come on, Artemis,” said Jade, as her sister bent to hug and kiss Lian goodbye one more time. “You know fully well if there’s anyone you can count on to get you _safely_ from Gotham to Blüdhaven, it’s Dickiebird here.”

“Since when was _safety_ a thing for you?” I said, chuckling. “Pretty sure zip-lining from the tops of condemned buildings doesn’t exactly constitute safe. Or wise, even.”

Artemis was about to reply, lifting a hand to Roy as he divested her of Lian, but Jade interrupted her would-be words. Although she kept her voice low, I heard it plain as day as Jade murmured, “You _need_ to tell him, Artemis — soon. It’s only going to get worse if you keep putting it off like this.”

“Jade, _shut up,”_ Artemis hissed, snatching the helmet from me and approaching the motorcycle.

“Tell me what?” I asked casually as I slung one leg over the bike seat. 

“Nothing. I mean — we’ll talk when we get to your place,” Artemis said, a harsh, final edge to her voice. “I don’t feel like chatting in fucking Antarctica.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at her as she joined me on the cycle. 

“Just peachy,” she said, fastening her helmet. “Come on, let’s just get this over with.”

“Do you want me to call Batdad and see if we can borrow a car?” 

She shook her head. “This is fine. Just don’t drive like a Batkid out of hell, okay?”

I frowned, but nodded. “I can do that.”

I got my own helmet on, gave the others a final wave, melting when Lian demonstrably hugged her hippo, and got moving to head to Blüdhaven.

The snow had stopped, and it wasn’t _that_ cold by comparison — conditions perfectly permissive for a bit of a speed run down the thinly populated northbound highway. But, battling yet another onslaught of perplexity, I took it easy, like Artemis asked. At one point, I dropped the speed to an agonizing forty, since she had her arms locked around my midsection in a goddamn _death_ grip the entire way. She about cut off the circulation to my lower extremities and made it tough to breathe. What was up with her? On a regular day, she’d have been begging to take the empty stretches of highway at the vehicle’s top speed — if she hadn’t relegated me to the backseat first. I couldn’t help fretting over the whole thing as we made our way to my apartment in the Upper East Side, the bitty little ten blocks-wide single nice area of the otherwise derelict, crime-ridden city of Blüdhaven. 

The loft I kept wasn’t big, or even especially nice — it was, for all purposes, a studio. To its credit, it _did_ have some pretty cool high-vaulted ceilings. The lower level was one room, the kitchen cordoned off from the living area by a small, rectangular island, one wall comprised of a floor-to-ceiling window that opened out to a nice view of the building right next to it. Extended from the teeny dining nook was the door to the small, wrought iron balcony. The far wall was bricked in, bordering the scuffed wooden floor, a neglected fireplace situated within the bricks beneath the shelving that held the bottom level’s TV. A garret bedroom, cramped and narrow and populated mostly by my splurges (my bed and my work area), overlooked the entire lower level, blocked off only by white, cylindrical railings, connected to it by a winding staircase. I had jerry rigged a mini-gym beneath the overlook with everything I needed. Just beyond the little exercise cubbyhole was the minuscular bathroom. I’d set up my workspace in the bedroom loft, in front of the window. I spent most of my time in that spot, be that for work or studying. It was comprised of an IKEA desk that Wally helped me put together when I first moved, a reasonably comfy chair, two monitors, and the machine I’d built by hand, adding to it over the years.

It might have seemed a little humble for the eldest Wayne beneficiary with a generous stipend (that Bruce insisted on every month, I really didn’t know why) and a trust fund, but it was _mine._ I paid for it all with my own bread, banking on the cash I made contracting out my network security acumen while I finished out school. I had some decent, regular paying gigs — BPD, for one, Drake Industries, for another (thanks for directing your dad my way, Tim.) As an aside, the modest inheritance from my own parents I used for fun and entertainment. Each “pay period” that specific account reloaded, it came with a strange, but welcome, sense that it was like a monthly gift from my mom and dad, sent from wherever they were, and, thinking of them, I turned that money to _enjoying_ my life the best I could. And although I’d never call it home (home to me is people, not places), I was _proud_ of my little base-of-operations and how I handled things in my adult life. 

So I wasn’t exactly ashamed to bring Artemis into my less polished abode, which I’d cleaned that morning (for the first time in… two months? Heh) in anticipation of her possibly coming by later. For you know, whatever. Didn’t have to be _that._

As it was, we were here, apparently, to _talk._ Never an encouraging thing to hear, especially in an ambiguous situation like this one, and equally discouraging when there was some burning info that Artemis was apparently withholding. If I had to guess, her father had been made aware of my new position in her life, and as such, my head was in Sportsmaster’s crosshairs everywhere I went. I appreciated Artemis’ concern, but my overall feeling on that? Bring it, asshole.

That in mind, I locked the apartment door behind me as we entered. I worked out an Artemis-induced kink in my spine, ditched my damp shoes, and slung my snowy coat across the kitchen island. Artemis followed suit with her own coat and plaid-patterned scarf, and then, bending forward, folded her arms on the granite countertop to rest her head on the pink sleeves of her sweater. 

“You okay?” I asked her, approaching the refrigerator. I handed her a bottle of water. 

She lifted her head, and opened the bottle gratefully. “Thanks. I’m fine, just bushed. It’s late.”

“Dude, it’s not even ten,” I said, chuckling. “Exams really took it out of you, apparently.”

She sniffed. “Yeah. Exams.”

“Or Lian?” 

“Her, too,” she said fondly. “The kid’s a hurricane.”

“A cute hurricane,” I said, grabbing my own bottle. I hopped up and sat on the counter next to where she leaned. “So. We were going to talk about something. What’s up?”

“Oh, Dick, I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she whined lightly. “I’m _happy.”_

I smiled, and swung my legs. “Come on, Arty, don’t leave me hanging.” I paused. “Again.”

She straightened, and, her lip quirking, she made to reach for her coat.

“Well, Dick, it’s been real,” she said with a mirthless laugh. “I’ll just see myself out now.”

“What are you talking about?” I said amiably.

“I have a distinct feeling that my chances of being welcome in the same room after this are going to divebomb straight into the floor,” she said humorously. 

I reached for her, and gently clasped her by the nape of her neck, weaving my fingers in her hair, my thumb against her ear. “Try me.”

She sighed, and was silent.

“Artemis,” I murmured. “Look, whatever it is, I promise, I’ll still be here, after.”

She eyed me, an unfamiliar, unreadable expression on her face, one loaded with so many flickering, sporadic emotions that it was difficult to place even one. Fear, uncertainty, dread, despair, panic — all of those came to mind, although I couldn’t be certain.

“Promise?” she said.

“Promise,” I said, and smiled. “What’s up, Doc?”

I was fully convinced by now it was _definitely_ her dad that had her so upset and concerned. I ran a hand over her hair, bracing myself for the upcoming horror story, whatever it might have been. And stories about Sportsmaster — trust me. They could get _bad._ Fast.

She sighed, and sat down at one of the barstools. I slid off the counter, and came to stand beside her, leaning against the corner of the beveling. She stared at the faux marble surface, not speaking. 

“Artemis,” I said. “Come on. You’re starting to worry me, here. What’s going on?”

“Dick,” she said, her voice barely over a whisper. “I am so, so, _so_ sorry.”

I shook my head. “For what?”

She took a deep breath. Her hands, worrying at the sleeves of her sweater, trembled.

“Well, here goes nothing…” she muttered. “You _might_ want to sit down.” 

“I have a high tolerance for shock,” I said breezily. “Besides, you look like you might need a hug when you’re done saying whatever you need to say. So,” I spread my arms, “here I stand. Or lean. Now, what is it?”

She took a breath, and then…

Said nothing for so long that I started to feel a little impatient. 

“Look,” I told her, breaking the quiet, giving her a smile that I hoped was encouraging, “whatever it is, you can tell me, okay? It’s just me. You don’t need to worry or be afraid or anything.”

“You say that now.”

I chuckled. “Well, as long as it’s not ‘I’m pregnant,’ we’re all gravy. What is it?”

Silence. She jerked to look at me as she blanched, stricken, her eyes wide. Visibly, she started to shake. 

I drew up completely short as my heart plummeted.

 _Oh, shit, oh, no, anything but this — anything —_

“…Oh, God,” I said, my heart pulsing in my throat, thundering between my ears. “Are you…?” 

_Anything but this —_

She gazed helplessly at me for a time simultaneously a second and a year. 

Then she spoke.

“Yes.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Chibi_Nightowl, for your amazing beta work, and Pop_Culturist, Mangaluva, Isis_the_Sphinx, Zoeleo, and Libraryman85 for being your awesome selves. <3


	7. 10-10-19

_October 10, 2019_

_Dick,_

_I had never been on a road trip before New Year’s this year. Sure, traveling was occasionally done with Mom and Dad when we were kids, but I wouldn’t consider hanging out in the backseat as your parents jammed on the lam to be road trips. :P There was the GA class trip to Washington D.C., but that was on a sweltering bus that we weren’t allowed to eat on and I wound up sitting next to Eric Jorgensen on a whim, meaning I had to listen to a big long spiel about how the Justice League was, in fact, the Illuminati, and Young Justice their shape-shifting reptilian underlords. I think we can agree that while Eric is very nice and actually has some decent deductive reasoning, that didn’t exactly make for a fun ride as I sat there trying not to laugh or get him on video to upload it to YouTube. Then Wally and I were broke and busy college students, one with superspeed and both with access to Zeta Tubes, so it’s not like we ever bothered road tripping._

_So, as you know, I was pretty gung-ho when you proposed one after I dropped Fat Man on you just before Christmas last year. The idea, you explained, was basically to get away for a few days and spend some time together and chat things over without all the white noise of daily life in the way. Sure, seemed like a fine idea._

_You mentioned that Bruce had a house in Savannah, GA, and asked if I’d ever been there. I replied that I’d already been to the seventh layer of hell, and could we maybe go somewhere else to escape the replay of Canada’s No Name Storm from before we were born, like Hawaii or Tahiti? You just chuckled and promised that I would love the city, and if you were wrong, you would make it up to me in the manner of my choosing. I was so damn sick all the time that I gave in and agreed to check out Savannah, because any other vacay was just going to be wasted, anyway. Might as well be one I didn’t care about._

_(You ended up being right, and so did Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I fell head over heels in love with that place. It has a weird voodoo about it, that’s for sure — not a literal voodoo, but there’s SOMETHING about the city that calls you back to it, time and again. It’s just beautiful. Magical, even, and you witnessed my even greater delight when I learned that Flannery O’Connor actually hailed from there — I didn’t know! I took a picture of her house and sent it to Jason in my excitement, as I’m sure you recall, along with the little trivia tidbit about her local fame stemming more from the fact that she taught her chicken how to walk backwards. I felt pretty dumb to hear he already knew that bit.)_

_Anyway, the visit to the city itself we can maybe get into another time, but I was most entranced by the idea of the road trip itself at first, as in the DRIVE — you know, one spent with someone I loved and enjoyed, and NOT in an effort to escape the law. Winding through the mountains of Tennessee kind of made the earlier part of that trip a bit… less fun than I expected, considering I wound up motion sick on top of pregnant sick and you had to pull over repeatedly so I could puke without spattering Bruce’s beloved Range Rover (first time, I tried hurling out the window, and that backfired — literally, right into my face, and all over the car door.) Then we had to take the road at approximately 25 mph since we got stuck in that blizzard, and then we were stopped for hours in the literal HUNDRED MILE BACK-UP through North Carolina. I had been expecting something straight out of Kerouac, and instead got traffic, pissed-the-hell-off Mother Nature, and the queasies. The Artemis Standard._

“ _Well,” I announced, after about an eon of going nowhere and breathing six-eight-seven to stave off the urge to make abstract art on the dashboard, “this trip is off to a roaring stop.”_

 _You agreed that you were disappointed in how things were going, especially with it being my first road trip and all. You suggested we pull off to spend the night, since we weren’t making any progress, anyway, and an extra day wouldn’t hurt. Tomorrow HAD to be better, right? We stayed in a hotel that seemed reputable enough, except I turned up a kissing bug (apropos??) in the shower that startled the CRAP out of me and actually had me, for the first time in my life, shouting some variant of “HONEY, KILL IT!!” (You did. My hero. And proceeded to give me shit about it ever after. Actual dick.) :P_

_Don’t judge. Kissing bug bites HURRRRT._

_Then, as we walked outside in the morning, there was a horse tacked to the dumpster out back. That was a bit of a new sight for us fully urban Gothamites._

_Then… The Oregon Trail, Road Trip Edition._

_You asked, as we stopped for gas and food, if I’d ever played Oregon Trail online. I scoffed and informed you that I’d played the original on a disc on an actual, physical computer (I think you popped a boner so massive I’m kind of astounded it didn’t bust through the roof of the car.) The thing was, I explained, my dad let me use the ancient relic in the den (aka his computer from the same year I was born, that miraculously still worked) to futz around with, since Myst and Oregon Trail kept me out of his hair whenever he decided I’d flunked so far out of his training that it was time to get me to a nunnery instead._

_What I didn’t explain was this… Both games were ganked off some bigwig my dad killed nearly a decade before. And yes, he reminded me of this every time I booted up the old computer to play either game. We only got two channels on TV via rabbit ears and I only got to watch TV after my dad left for the night, anyway. I owned exactly three VHS tapes (the rest of the tapes were my dad’s porn… gross), and those games. I felt bad, but… Okay. I don’t feel any better about admitting this to you, but I nipped off to the library every chance I got and pinched books to read. I always gave them back, Dick, always. No harm, no foul. Books were like little submersibles I could take into whole new worlds and lives — ones I never thought I’d know, but could sojourn in for as long as I was engaged in reading. I “borrowed” tapes, too, occasionally. But all of those… I had to give back. I got to keep my ancient goddamn ill-gotten computer games and I cleaved to them like a tiger with a fresh kill._

_So I was totally game (ha!) to create an updated rendition of The Oregon Trail as we continued on the last leg of my first road trip. I can’t remember all of the things we came up with in specific, but a few stick out._

“ _The car tipped over in a blizzard,” you said. “You will need a gajillion sets of clothing, half a car tire, a Rambo movie’s cache of bullets and artillery, and Dick-and-Balls died of exposure.”_

“ _Inadequate GAS,” I said. “Rover has died.”_

“ _You shot thirty thousand pounds of meat but can only carry two pounds with the help of party members. You used all your damn bullets,” you said. “If you continue hunting in this area, game will go extinct.”_

“ _You purchased bad fast food from a highly stereotyped emigrant,” I suggested. “Arty has E. Coli.”_

_You got a big kick out of that, and added, “You encountered inbred mutie psycho killers in the back-ass mountains. You have died of NOT accidental gunshot wounds and axe murder.”_

“ _Inbred cannibal creeps eating the corpses has led to loss of morale,” I said. “Suggest funeral option. What would you like on your tombstone?”_

_Then you about lost your shit, and, through the giggles that had you literally streaming tears, said, “Here lies Arty, peperony and chease.” (Ah, the notorious Oregon Trail, Tombstone Pizza joke from circa the mid-1990s that still enjoys fame among the remnants of the fandom today.)_

_I couldn’t even add to that. I just laughed myself sick (literally.)_

_Right about then we rolled into Savannah, and had nothing short of a BLAST on that trip. We did ghost tours, an actual ghost hunt with EVP equipment (reminding me powerfully of poor Greta), historical tours, carriage rides, and shopped and explored. I ate my weight in Huey’s beignets. We had a LOT of sex, noteworthy since we hadn’t done the deed since I told you about cough-cough, you know, cough-cough. And we TALKED. Did we ever freaking talk. Everything that needed figured out, planned, navigated, detailed, whatever, we talked about. Even our feelings and fears and… excitement. Easily, comfortably, and in a way that I felt a thousand percent BETTER when it came time to go home. I was happy as a dang clam when we drove back to New Jersey (a much smoother drive than the way to Georgia and redeemed the concept of the road trip in my mind.) And I believed you, what you said — that it would be okay, that everything would be fine, that I didn’t need to stress or worry about anything. And if that trip was any indication, I had a feeling WE would be okay and fine, too._

_Ugh. I’m tearing up like a total sap, even as I recount this. Time to pack it in, I guess._

_Once again… more to come._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Chibi_Nightowl, for your amazing beta work! <3 ^_^


	8. 12-22-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullooooooo all! <3 Hope all is well... :-)
> 
> So let me take a second to recognize my network security guru lifemate for his insanely helpful contributions to this chapter (and fic in general.) And although he will probably never see this message... HUBS, WE SALUTE YOU. :D *shaaaa-wing*
> 
> Many thanks as always to Chibi_Nightowl for her awesome beta work, daisymagick, Mangaluva and Libraryman85 for their unparalleled brainstorming, and to The_Pop_Culturist (there's a bit in here that is pretty much all you, and to that end, thank you for the suggestion, since I freaking loved it and totally ran with it.) :D
> 
> Enjoy, all. <3 
> 
> MUCH LOOOOOOOOVE!!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> EF <3

December 22, 2018

_Dick_

“Hello…?”

The surface of the team-only iPhone screen blurred in my sleep-muzzed vision as I thumbed clumsily at it, confused, not awake. Unusual for me — I was normally entirely in the now the second that thing went off. Pavlov’s Dog — Pavlov’s Dick? I somehow accepted the call, and got the phone pressed to my ear.

“Hello,” I tried again.

“I've tried calling you seven times since four this morning. You’re needed in the Bat Cave,” said Bruce. 

I blinked, and sat up. I rubbed at my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.

“Okay, what’s up?” I asked.

“Your firewalls were compromised, and the integrity of the audio file on the wire was dropped before it reached the endpoint of your system. The one we intercepted last month.”

“What?”

“You heard me. The audio file implicating Luthor in the Amaze-O theft is gone.”

“That’s… not possible,” I said, wanting with all my strength to just burrow back under the blankets and for fuck’s sake go back to sleep. Artemis slumbered beside me, her back to me, her hair fanned over the pillow. As she stirred at the sound of my voice, I reached over and stroked the blonde tresses, smooth under my palm. She turned, and nestled into my side. I sheltered her form with one arm.

“Nightwing, nevertheless. I need you here now to go over this problem with Batgirl and Robin. Without that file, there’s no tie. And it could be months before we turn up another potential link between Luthor and the disappearances not only of high-end tech, but metahumans, as well. He’ll undoubtedly be more careful, more paranoid from here on. That’s not even getting into the implications of your systems being compromised.”

Artemis cuddled in closer. By now fully awake, I paused in stroking her hair. Bruce understated it. The idea that someone had possibly broken into _my_ systems? _More_ than alarming — it was on Code Black emergency levels. But for as abruptly freaked out as I was over the budding disaster the entire thing posed, I _still_ had other shit to deal with — serious personal shit that also constituted something of an emergency. I was walking on blown glass under both feet, juggling two exceptionally fragile eggs. I strained my exhausted brain, and knew that, for as sensitive as the situation was, and for as much as I wanted to get to the bottom of this disaster myself ASAFP, Babs and Tim could handle it from the Cave, while I contributed remotely from the apartment. 

“Bats, look, I’ve… kind of got something personal going on,” I said. “Robin and Batgirl should be able to handle their end of things from the cave while I remote in from my machine here —” 

“You’re needed,” Bruce interrupted in his no-bullshit Batman voice. “The Bat Cave. Now.”

“Bats, I need —”

“ _Now.”_

I clenched my teeth and tightened my lips, fighting the angry huff that threatened to betray my agitation. “Fine, give me fifteen minutes.”

“Ten.”

“ _Twelve.”_

I fought the urge to just slam the phone onto the nightstand as I hit the end prompt before Bruce could refuse. I picked up a stray pillow and screamed into it, effectively waking Artemis. She shifted, and looked up at me through the veil of her hair.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Arty,” I said, giving her a fully remorseful look. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Mmph. It’s okay. Uh… Trouble in paradise?” she asked me groggily.

“Urgent business in the Bat Cave,” I replied with a sigh. “Disaster, and _heavy_ on the dis. That audio interception that clinched the tie between your dad and Luthor? Gone. _Poof._ ”

She abruptly sat up. “What?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, crap, Dick,” she said. “Shit, piss, damn, Coogee Bay Ice Cream.”

“You said it, babe,” I muttered, and rubbed my aching temples. “You know, that someone out there can break into my shit? Not only is that a _huge_ blow to my sizeable ego, but it’s also pretty freaking _terrifying.”_

“You can say that again,” she said, and got herself a little more upright. All of the color drained instantaneously from her face. “Oh, no…”

“What —”

I didn’t even finish my sentence when she hauled ass out of bed and pounded down the winding steps to the main floor. I heard the bathroom door slam shut. I leapt out of bed.

_Crap, prego nausea, I bet my tacky effing beanie hat —_

I headed hastily down the steps after her, swiping a pair of jeans and a hoodie beforehand. 

“Arty, you okay?” I asked through the door, concerned, yanking my jeans on. I was three minutes by foot from the nearest Zeta, and I was already down two minutes. I _really_ didn’t want to leave her, but I had to get moving or face the wrath of Bats (and potentially a Luthor-themed hostile global takeover in the near future.) I hovered, torn, zipping up the hooded sweatshirt. There was no real reason I couldn’t just remote in, I thought for approximately the umpteenth time — maybe I should just bring Bruce up to speed, ready or not, opportune or not. To hell with the concept of good timing — anyone who ever said there was such a thing as “Good Timing” in these things needed a sound bitchslap. 

I was about to produce my phone to call Bruce and make a case for why I needed to stay home when I heard the toilet flush, then the water running. After a moment, the door opened, and Artemis stood leaning against the frame, shivering in her underwear and camisole, face sweaty and pale, eyes watering and nose running.

“Ugh,” she said, swaying a little on her feet, leaning her forehead against the hand that white knuckled the door frame. “Dick, I don’t feel so good.” She inhaled shakily. “Pity me, please…”

Okay, fuck Batman. And Luthor. I was staying home and remoting in. The end.

“I’m sorry, Arty,” I said, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from her clammy, dripping face. “Let me call Bruce, there’s no reason Tim and Babs can’t handle it for right now.”

She emphatically waved a hand. “Dick, come on, world security or me throwing up? I’m not dying, I’m not crippled, I’m not even technically sick. Your systems, on the other hand, are potentially _very_ sick. I think it’s perfectly okay to consider that a priority, here.”

I frowned. “You sure?”

She nodded through her obvious strain. “I’m sure. But… Will you be mad if I just crash on your couch today? I don’t know if I feel like attempting a cab ride back to my mom’s.” 

“Of course not,” I told her. “Mi couch es su couch. Stay as long as you want.”

“Thanks,” she said, and as she exited the bathroom, I laid a hand on her back, steadying her, as she made her shaky way toward the couch. 

“You, uh… wouldn’t also happen to have a pair of pants I could borrow, would you?” she asked. “I’d just throw my jeans back on, but I’d like to pretend to be comfortable today and they’re actually starting to pinch a little.”

“Already?”

She gave me a Look.

“All right, wrong thing to say, got it,” I said placatingly, half-smiling, lifting my hands. “You just — you really don’t look any different.”

She smirked. “Have you _had_ a good look recently?”

I smirked right back. “Are you offering?”

“Well, if you’ve got a barf fetish,” she said lightly, and dropped onto the sofa with a groan. “ _God_ , your couch is comfy.” She curled up around one of the throw pillows, incidentally my favorite one, wrapping her entire body around it, looking _painfully_ adorable. I smiled. 

“Yay,” she went on happily. “Dickie, I hate to crack this to you, but I’m pretty sure I’m going Stage Five Yandere for this pillow and am _never_ leaving.”

I leaned down, bracing a hand on the back of the couch, and kissed her forehead. “Well, good. Works for me, although I’ll fight you for that pillow. Sit tight.”

I raced up to the bedroom, rifling through my drawers until I turned up a pair of old man flannel pajama pants with a drawstring. I was pretty lean, but Artemis was _tiny._ She’d drown in my sweats if there was no way to take them in. 

I came down the steps, and approached where she lay on the couch, looking a bit like Playmate of the Month, except (mostly) covered up. I handed her the flannel pants, and got her a blanket, too. Then some extra pillows. Then all the remotes she’d need. Then a glass of water. Then I set her bag within reach, for if she’d need her phone. Finally, I pulled out my credit card and a wad of cash and set those on the end table, also in reach. She watched me, amused.

“What’s that for?” she asked, tilting her head at the cash. "Your _not_ blow job last night?"

“Umm… food. I have exactly jack and shit in the way of groceries, unless you want to make three meals out of cereal. I just, uh… I just want you to be comfortable while I’m gone,” I said mildly.

“I’ll be more than comfortable, Dick, this loft is pretty dang swanky, you know,” she said, smiling. She stretched luxuriously, like a cat.

“Swanky and drafty,” I said. “It gets cold in here, so feel free to turn up the thermostat if you need to — it’s on the wall there by the front door. You know how to work the TV, if you want to order a movie, I’ll text you the password. You get hungry, like I said, there’s no _food_ in my food, so go ahead and use the credit card or the cash to order something —”

“Dick,” Artemis said, her lip quirking into a smile. “I’ll be fine. Your fretting is going a little overboard.”

I wormed my own lip, still fretting. “I know. I just… I’m _really_ not thrilled about getting called away now of all times.” 

“Well, I’m not, either, but… Duty calls, I get it. And it’s an important duty.” She gave me about the cutest damn look as she yanked the flannels over her amazing legs. “Better go deal with that there duty and stay whelmed, the sooner you get started, the sooner you get finished.” I smiled. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“You sure you’ll be okay here? Pants fit reasonably enough?” I asked.

“A, once again, I’ll be fine, and B, I’m pretty sure these will stay up — you know, if you _want_ them to.” My smile widened, and hers did the same until her expression faded into a grimace. “And if not, well… I guess they will soon enough.”

“Yeah,” I said, running a hand over my hair. “Uh, speaking of that, we’ll talk more when I get home, okay? Like… just chat things over and get a game plan in order. After I deal with whatever asshat Luthor undoubtedly paid a fuckton to hack into my, as you put it, Coogee Bay Ice Cream…” I rubbed at my forehead, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. “Odds are this will take a while, so like I said, make and consider yourself totally at home, okay? Mi couch, mi casa, mi stuff, all of it es su stuff.”

“Okay, noted. Now go get ’em, Boy Wonder,” Artemis said, chuckling. 

“Also noted.” I leaned down and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Dick, you’re going to be late, and Bruce is going to shit a brick. Or ten,” said Artemis. “Will you get the hell out of my hair for five minutes?”

I grinned. “Again, noted. Text me if you need me.”

“Yeah, I’ll sext you every half hour. My way of checking in,” she assured me with one of her wicked little smiles that drove me _nuts._

I gave her a jaunty wave and grabbed my coat off the island.

And then…

I was out the door.

All levity and affected calm fucking _vanished_ the second that door shut.

I had a three-minute walk to try getting my brains — the consistency of scrambled eggs — halfway back into proper positioning within my aching skull before I reached the Zeta. _Better brood fast, then, Boy Dumbass,_ I exhorted myself, walking briskly through the falling snow in the direction of the tube. _It’s too cold to take your sweet-ass time about it and Batdad is already going to have Batkittens over the fact that you’re late._

To say I’d just had the rug yanked out from underneath me and I’d found myself abruptly deposited on my ass in an epic fall in the vein of Monty Python wouldn’t even _begin_ to cover it. What was it that Artemis had said about an atomic bomb the night before? “Think you’ve got your shit together? Awesome, along comes the atomic baby bomb… _Kaboom!”_ I’d waved off her comparison, but the concept of it had some merit.

At the same time, though, let’s just be honest. When she came out with it, it seemed ludicrous to feel so shocked. The second she spoke the words, every single cog just fell _snap_ into place, getting the gears in my head turning in the corresponding direction with a resounding _duh_. I had to have seen this coming at least on _some_ level. The mystery illness, the sudden need to talk to me after over a month of silence, the waterworks, the hesitance over the Tomahawk. Really? Surely, I knew the rug was under my feet before it got yanked. If not, well, here’s my hypothetical detective’s badge, you can have it for free.

And on that note, I couldn’t _believe_ I’d made such a doucheknob crack about it — “ _as long as it’s not ‘I’m pregnant,’ we’re all gravy.”_ Seriously, Literal Dick? How about being a little more clueless and insensitive — Team Douche needs a new captain. 

When she told me in plain language that she was pregnant, I stood for a series of dumbstruck moments, silently allowing the news to slowly seep its way in. Then, I just wordlessly reached over, and hugged her with all my might.

My heart all but _fell_ when she whispered, “Dick, I’m sorry —”

“Don’t,” I shushed her firmly. “Don’t.”

And I just held her, further quieting her efforts to apologize — why was _she_ sorry? She didn’t have a damn thing to be sorry for. I ardently stressed that to her, tightening my hold on her shaking form. She cried into my chest a while, not speaking, either, just gripping me with her arms cinched around my waist, cleaving to me as though I were a life preserver. We spent most of the night that way, only talking in greater depth when we were ready. (At which point, I said _my_ direly needed apologies, ones she equally attempted to hush.)

I hunched my shoulders against the cold. Well, I thought with a sigh, the guys were right. They warned me that I’d be the first of them to take a cock-shot to the face with, you know, Consequences. I’d laughed then, luxuriating in their humorous misperceptions. I wasn’t laughing now. I was lost in space, meandering in the lightless regions of the outskirts of the universe, bobbing through unseen, atom-altering tunnels of dark matter, a self-initiated lawless transient floating through the Phantom Zone. 

So, before you ask… Let me just set one thing straight. It wasn’t at all that the idea of fatherhood in and of itself was premature Armageddon. Yes, I was nervous — _really_ nervous. Jittery nervous. Too-much-coffee nervous. Coke-and-meth nervous. Dark-pants-were-a-good-idea nervous. 

You get the point.

But the fact was, Artemis wanted to _keep_ this baby — _our_ baby — and she not only heartily and readily wished me to be a part of it, but to share in it _with her_ , as well. And I knew by then full well what my feelings were, and had quit battling myself on them. The real truth? Oh, I had loved her for _years._ I was elated that she wanted to put a tack on things, accept me, _love_ me — like I loved her. For an impulsive nanosecond in the wake of the baby bomb and subsequent decision to take the next step into Boyfriend, Girlfriend Territory, I’d considered going all in and just getting down on one knee to pop the question — but she’d shot that down before I’d even opened my mouth to speak.

“And don’t you _dare_ marry me because I’m pregnant,” she’d said, and although there was buoyancy in her voice, there was a profound finality in it, too. With her cooler head prevailing, I sat, _hard,_ on that caprice — even if I wasn’t marrying her specifically because she was pregnant, it was perhaps ill-advised to let that little factor expedite that decision.

It was easier for me to get impulsive in decision making, here, I knew — I was comfortably aware of the fact that my life circumstances were actually fairly forgiving of such a _monumental_ change. I was almost done with school, my day jobs required approximately one hour of clicking buttons, I had oodles of ready and willing help in the form of unconditionally supportive friends and family, and I had _ample_ means to support both Artemis and Grayson Player Two.

Artemis, however, was in a position that I knew damn well was going to be a lot more of a challenge for her than it would be for me. I got to kick back and watch the show — she had to go through the bodily changes, the hormones, the symptoms of pregnancy that I had on good authority were often nothing shy of potential evidence that the natural order of things had a sadistic sense of humor. And even with me there to help her, and with the pool of my borderline infinite resources aforementioned available to her as well, all of the plans for her life that she’d had and upheld and pursued would face a pretty tremendous roadblock. I would be more than thrilled to support her in her goals and do everything in my power to facilitate her following them, but I _knew_ her. She’d be nothing if not completely devoted to this child, and that was a level of sacrifice it _hurt_ me to see her make. Especially after she’d worked so hard, and even more so since she didn’t sign up for it, ask for it, or even enter into it willingly. 

Yep. It was easy for me to get all excited, when I had the simple job and uncomplicated role in things and it was all my doing, anyway.

And there was Waldo, kids… why I _truly_ struggled with this colossal news.

This was undeniably my goddamn fault, no matter how I sliced it — it was my responsibility to make up for the pill’s failure rate, ensure we didn’t wind up the unlucky 5%. I didn’t. And oh look, there we were, a pair of unfortunate Five Percenters. Because I'd _failed_ her.

 _A cock’s a gift, wrap it first,_ I thought with a worn, bitter sense of self-loathing.

I paused at the mouth of the Zeta, and sighed when I thought, wearily and heavily, on Wally. Yet… again.

He was even troubling my _dreams_ at this point, not an uncommon thing, granted, but never like this. The night previous, he’d shown up in my already unpleasant dreamscape, which involved falling — all of my bad dreams did.

And this time, just as I landed uneasily on the same platform my mother had leapt to her death from, he’d pushed me from its surface before I could catch the trapeze, sending me plunging through a suddenly endless blur of screams and flashing lights and the echoing sound of my mother’s voice crying my name. I twisted, seeing Wally on the platform above me as I fell, his translucent form only partially corporeal and shivering in and out of focus, lightning snaking and crackling around him. His face contorted with rage, his features anamorphic under the leaping, flickering illumination of the bolts that shivered around him.

 _You could have had anyone you wanted_ , _Dick,_ anyone _you wanted!_ The reverberating sound of his sobbing voice undulated around me, ebbing and flowing, pulsing through my descending body. _Why her? Why did it have to be her? Why?_

Variants of this plagued my sleep all night — meaning I slept like total crap. Exhausted, I scrubbed at the snow that rapidly collected on my eyelashes and brows. I had made a total wreck of the life Wally tried so hard to build and safeguard before the end, and then gone and done the same to the woman he loved, instead of what I’d promised him years before — that if anything were to happen to him, I would support Artemis in every way I could, as his friend _and_ hers.

And of course I would support Artemis in this, and our baby — I knew all too well what it meant to be an unwanted, parentless kid and a burden on the system, equally that single motherhood is hardly cakewalk. I mean, no fucking _way_ was I going to leave my child and best friend to that, or turn my back on them, _fail_ them further. But I found myself unsure of how to go about supporting Artemis in this, beyond what I was already doing. Could I _fix_ this entire mess like I wanted to — the mess I said didn’t have to be a mess, but was very much a damn mess, all the same?

“Dick, this is a _disaster,”_ Artemis had hissed the night before, when I’d tried unsuccessfully to convince her (okay, and myself) that we were not, in fact, in a mess.

“Well, maybe,” I’d finally allowed, “but this one’s a little lighter on the dis than others.”

I sighed. Maybe it was… and maybe it wasn’t. This should have been Wally’s place, I knew, dealing with this massive Oopsie, supporting Artemis and facing together a lifelong, cozy future of playing house. To say I felt a renewed sense of being totally out-of-place, gratuitous, inappropriate — and like a goddamn _intruder —_ would downplay the crap out of it. 

I entered the Bat Cave in an undeniable state of utter frazzle, making my way to the control room and chucking my coat over a railing. 

_Okay, get whelmed,_ I told myself, _the game’s afoot and you have bad guys that need caught like yesterday._

Tim and Babs already sat at one of the computer tables, immersed in work. Bruce sat at the main hub, invested in his own screen. He turned as I entered.

“You’re late,” Bruce stated, and gave me one of his simultaneously deadpan and searing looks. “Unless by twelve minutes you actually meant twenty.”

“Sorry, Bruce. Look, can we talk later?” I said, brushing snow out of my hair.

“We can,” he replied. “That later, however, might have to be _much_ later. The situation at hand is more dire than we thought.”

“All right, I’m on it,” I assured him. “Talk much later.”

I approached the work table, greeting my fellow Batfam kids and sitting down.

“Well, good of you to join us,” Babs said wryly, giving me a familiar lift of the eyebrow. 

I smiled, stuffing the urge to just unload on both of them in a moment of untrammeled emotion. Instead, I stuck on the desired veneer of calm, collected Nightwing, even if I wore civvies.

“Sorry,” I said. “Weird night and morning. Where are we on everything?”

Tim shifted one of his monitors so I could see it more clearly. 

“Well, we took the systems offline, and we’re checking firewall logs for suspicious activity — I mean, since we log both TCP and stateless UDP, we have eyes on everything that touches this network. Even if our guy tried to cover his tracks, we’ll find him.”

“Ugh, the League’s going to be offline for days because of this…” I mourned, dropping my head to the table. 

“At least the League isn’t for profit, I guess,” Barbara said with a sigh. “Let’s just get to it.”

I settled into my seat, accepted a cup of coffee from Babs, and then looked askance at Tim when he took a photo of his notepad and can of energy drink (the unholy offspring of espresso and Monster — I was never opposed to coffee or energy drinks, but honestly…? Never the twain shall meet.) He thumbed the screen of his Android, apparently texting someone.

“Umm… Sorry to pry, but who are you swapping photos of your diary entries and your poor life choices with post-Cass?” I queried, indicating the energy drink can. 

“Jason, and in a friendly-type way,” he replied. He held up his notepad, and I laughed when I saw the sticker on the front — _Hide and Seek Champion… ; Since 1958._ “He sent me a copy of _Beloved,_ you know, to forcibly broaden my reading horizons, and when I went to read it, I found this inside. I thought it was a nice touch. Anyway, he’s already giving me a bunch of flack about my coffee drinking habits since he knows we’ve got this going on today, so I’m sending him photo evidence of the fact that I do, in fact, occasionally imbibe beverages other than coffee.”

“Tim, that’s a coffee-tainted energy drink,” Babs said primly, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m pretty sure that still constitutes coffee.”

“But — it comes out of a can,” Tim said grandly, picking it up and sipping it. I wrinkled my nose. It smelled like straight-up gasoline and cat litter went off and had a baby. “Hence, a beverage other than the concentrated light speed I make for myself every day.” 

“Well, I kind of hope Jay gives you even more crap for drinking _that_ stuff,” I said, waving a hand under my nose. “I mean, it might or might not be comprised of toxic waste.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Tim agreed with a grimace, and nudged the can away. “I can only plead insanity. Jason can be pretty insistent, okay? This seemed like a good compromise at the time.”

“I didn’t know you guys were like… on text and photo and shit swap basis,” I said, bemused.

“Oh, yeah, it’s uh, kind of a recent thing,” Tim said. 

His phone buzzed. He checked it, and laughed. I snatched it from him to snoop.

From Jason: _I scorn you, scurvy companion._

I laughed, too, handing him back his phone. “Well, I’d definitely say that’s progress since dismantling Redbird. This pleases sensei.”

“Well, I think once he realized he didn’t need to axe and re-replace ‘The Replacement,’ it got a lot easier to get to know him,” Tim said. “And that’s been a good thing, outside of not finding Redbird in neat little piles on the curb when I’m supposed to be on patrol — we have a lot more in common than he thought. Which I could have told him sooner if he wasn’t being a… you know, a —”

“An obstinate ass?” Babs supplied, smiling fondly.

“That,” Tim chuckled.

“That’s our Jason. If I may, though, boys,” said Barbara, “while bantering is great fun, we should probably knuckle down and focus. Got a worldwide catastrophe to circumvent, here.”

“Agreed,” I said. “Hop to, gumshoe.”

*******

I dropped my head atop the (real) marble of the kitchen island in the manor, and groaned. 

“Alfred, I’m whacked,” I moaned. “Days like these make me wish I snorted coke or abused dextroamphetamine.”

“Best not to get started on that habit, Master Dick,” Alfred piped cheerfully, “what say we stick with coffee, instead? Packed, of course, with a wholly unnecessary amount of sugar, as you’d have it.”

I smiled as he placed a cup next to me after generously sugaring the dark liquid in the otherwise dainty porcelain mug. “And here you get on me about my cereal, you enabler,” I said, lifting my head to take a sip. “Ah… I swear, Alfred, everything's better when you make it. What sorcery is that, exactly?”

“Perhaps the sorcery is merely that your repasts are being prepared by an individual other than yourself, Master Richard,” Alfred said humorously. 

“This is true,” I concurred. “I mean, grilled cheese is pretty straightforward, but I swear I can never make it taste like my mom’s did. And hers was painfully simple.”

Alfred gave me one of his warm smiles. “Well. It never will, I’m afraid. Part of what made those sandwiches special was that _she_ made them, after all.”

I nodded, all at once profoundly nostalgic for those sandwiches, and, vastly more so, for my mom. The far-reaching, _endless_ ramifications of her loss were, once again, making themselves brutally known. I wanted so _badly_ to tell her about Artemis, gush about my feelings for her, share with my mother the news of this inbound life change, unburden myself to her of my fears and regrets and happiness and excitement. I wanted to hear what pearls of wisdom and insight she would offer, hunch sheepishly under her gentle remonstrations over my lapse in responsibility. Most of all, I wanted to witness her entirely unconditional acceptance of Artemis and her unborn grandchild. My dad, too — _God,_ I wished Artemis could have known him, that she could have found in him the loving, protective, big-hearted father she’d not had growing up. Dad, with his own exceedingly ironic wit, laugh that could be heard ten houses away, and scrappy, rowdy personality, would have _adored_ her, unquestioningly taken her in as the daughter he never had. 

I stared at the counter, screamingly aware of the fact that for all I had so much in my life to count my lucky stars and put-upon guardian angel for, and that still more blessings and joys and fluff and rainbows were sure to come, that there remained _a grief that can’t be spoken, a pain goes on and on…_ as the song more eloquently said. 

Alfred came up behind me, and laid a hand on my shoulder. 

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die,” he said, his voice gentle, quiet. “Thomas Campbell.”

I half-smiled, and covered his hand with mine, squeezing his fingers. 

“Well, Master Richard, if you’re as whacked as you say,” he said, giving my shoulder a final press before withdrawing his touch, “I can only hope that the day’s work was met with success.”

Relieved to be moving onto less weighty subjects, thankful to Alfred for _knowing_ me and providing me that out, I launched into regaling him with the day’s literal exploits. 

“Well, we traced everything and found the guy — I initially thought he’d be a young gentleman of hidden talents, hiding out as a nobody in a big city with a ho hum job,” I said, “but it turns out, not so young, and not-so-hidden talents. This guy stays on the DL, but he markets out his skills to the cyber side of the black market from his home base in, conveniently enough, our beloved motherland of Gotham. So, Babs, Tim, and I put the systems offline for now, and we’ll be patching everything over the next couple of days.”

“I suppose I’ll have to make a run to Blüdhaven with groceries other than Lucky Charms, then, eh?” Alfred said jovially, the old traces of his Cockney accent amplifying. He was relaxed and fully himself, no longer filtered through the veil of butler to the Wayne house. “That sounds rather like a fair deal of work, old chum, and I know you, Master Dick — you’ll dive in face-first and not come up for air until you’re blue-faced and gasping, and wasting away of nutritional deficit to boot. Between you, Master Bruce, and Master Tim when he works from the Cave, it’s rather mind-boggling I’m not on increased blood pressure medication from the strain of just watching you.”

I laughed. “Well, no need for the spike in blood pressure making a run to Blüdhaven through the horrendous traffic — I’ve got Tim and Barbara to lighten the load for me. Anyway, while Tim’s working on that, Babs and I are going to get busy on a little recon on our guy tomorrow morning. Incidentally, a gent named Noah Kuttler, who goes by ‘the Calculator’ for his black market gigs and retains that as his username — God, what a dork.” I paused. “Says the guy who went by Robin and now by Nightwing. Anyway, after our recon, we’ll have a nice chat with him over some coffee and a donut or something when we find the best opportunity.”

Alfred chuckled. “Anecdotally, I understand the hot coffee and Hertz donut approach always works wonders when extracting information.”

I laughed, and held up one fist. “Hurts, don’-it?”

“Indeed it does, and none more than that classic pun, Master Dick.” 

More laughter, at least until Bruce entered the kitchen like the living manifestation of bad news. I sobered, and gritted my teeth.

Well, to quote Artemis… There went nothing.

I focused on the gleaming surface of the coffee as it rippled occasionally, reflecting the lights from overhead in little white and yellow spots. 

“Since the file couldn’t be retrieved,” said Bruce after a moment of talking with Alfred and accepting a cup of coffee, “you and Barbara will have to definitively link this Kuttler character to Luthor when you confront him. Not only by word of mouth, but by documentation, transactions, anything concrete you can use. There is always a trail, _always,_ and you and Barbara, thankfully, have noses for said trails. Once you have an effective enough tie, I’ll deal with Luthor personally. It shouldn’t be overly difficult to trap him in a cage of his own making before long.”

I nodded. “Easy enough.”

“In the meantime,” said Bruce, “you asked if we could talk.”

I pinched at the handle of my coffee cup as my heart guttered. “…Yep.”

There was silence, as Bruce and Alfred both waited for me to _talk._

“Well?” said Bruce, breaking the silence.

I heaved a sigh. “Might as well cut to the chase. Artemis told you she’s pregnant, right?”

“Artemis Crock, as in the young mistress that comes around every so often and validates my culinary skills?” asked Alfred. 

I couldn’t help smiling at that. “One and the same.”

Bruce was eyeing me. Knowingly. Possibly judgingly. 

“She did, yes,” Bruce affirmed neutrally, crossing his arms, responding to my earlier question. “She brought it to my attention when I repeatedly tried paging her to the Watchtower yesterday. I granted her leave.”

“Well, do you know whose it is?” I asked, trying not to wilt under his penetrating, inscrutable stare. 

“She didn’t say anything about the father,” Bruce replied evenly.

I took a breath. 

“Well, congratulations, Bruce,” I said, “you’re going to be a grandpa.”

There was an instant of quiet, as Bruce continued to wordlessly eye me.

Then, Alfred spoke.

“It’s yours then, is it, Master Richard?” he asked, and although his face remained placid, his eyes sparkled. 

For the first time since the night before, at the look in his eyes — so much _joy —_ I started to relax, my earlier excitement wholly vindicated in that moment.

“It is,” I said. “Means you’re going to be a…” I wormed my lip. “Uh, maybe I shouldn’t say it.”

“Come now, Master Richard, great-grandfather’s hardly a dirty word,” Alfred chuckled.

“No, but grandfather certainly is,” Bruce said in one of his exceptionally rare moments of wry humor. 

I inclined my head. “Uh… Bruce, was that a _joke_ I detected in those words?”

“It was,” he replied. “A weak one, I’m afraid, but a joke.”

“Wow,” I said. “A joke. Alfred, I do believe hell has frozen over.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Alfred, by now all but humming with excitement, “a very chilly evening south of the otherworldly border, I daresay.”

“Back to the subject at hand,” Bruce interjected, holding up a hand. “Whether or not I’m especially _surprised_ by this development —”

“Punderbar!” I cheered.

He graced me with one of his infrequent smiles. “ _Punintentional,_ on that note — I _would_ like to know what your plans are, from here.” 

“No lectures about using protection first?” I said. 

His lip quirked. “Well, I would prefer to be optimistic and assume that you suffered the misfortune of using _some_ form of safeguarding that failed.”

“Well,” I said with a sigh, “you can still sleep at night. Longer than fifteen minutes, anyway. You’re looking at an unlucky Five Percenter.” I held my hands out and leaned back.

He gave an even rarer expression in the form of an amused smirk. “It’s not like you to play fast-and-loose with statistics.”

I ran a hand over my hair and sighed. “When I’m sober, you mean.”

He nodded in a manner unexpectedly understanding. “I see.” There was a beat, and then he said, “Wally’s birthday?”

I fiddled with my coffee cup, and nodded. “Uh… How’d you figure that?” 

“I considered the timing,” Bruce explained. He sighed. “…Grief can have that effect.”

“That it can,” Alfred agreed. 

“Can I ask, though — what did you _mean_ by you weren’t especially surprised?” I asked.

Bruce, again, gave me a smile. I wondered if his face was going to break under the unaccustomed amount of strain. “It’s no secret to me what your feelings for Artemis have been, Dick. And hers for you, for that matter. For some time. You know what they say — often, it’s the members of the couple itself that are the last to know how they feel.”

“…Oh.” I lifted my coffee cup, then put it back down without taking a sip. “Jeez, has it been that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so,” Bruce said, amused in his droll way. “So I repeat my earlier question — what are your plans from here?”

“I’m… not completely sure,” I admitted. “Bruce, she only told me last night. All I know definitively so far is she wants to keep it and we’re doing the boyfriend, girlfriend thing. Apparently under the radar for now, since we haven’t really announced anything yet, and I don’t know if Artemis _wants_ to anytime soon.”

Bruce grunted. “Well, I’m at least assuming she won’t be returning to team duties for a while, not in combat capacity, anyway. Now, if she’d like to remain active in Young Justice, I can work with the others to accommodate that desire. There’s always the joy of paperwork, for one thing, that _no one_ seems to want to tackle and always winds up in a pile on a desk somewhere at headquarters.”

“Oh, she’ll love to help with that…” I said dryly. 

Bruce, again, smiled. “What is your role going to be in things?”

I gave him a look. “Is that a serious question?”

“Yes, Dick, it is,” he said sternly. “You’re twenty-two years old, you’re still in school, and my understanding of this is that it’s the unintended result of an intoxicated one-night stand. I want to hear it from you, what you expect your role to be.”

“Well, gee, Bruce, I kind of thought I was going to be a dad,” I said. 

“Mm-hmm. And you understand the level of responsibility that’s actually going to require?”

“I have a pretty decent idea, yes.”

“And you’re prepared to fulfill all of those responsibilities?”

I nodded. “I think so. I mean… I hope. Look, I’m not pretending it won’t be a change. I’m not pretending it’s going to be all romantic and mushy, like a bunch of frolics in the park and cute little frilly bonnets and homemade fluffy blankets. Don’t forget, Raquel and I are still close pals, it’s not as though I didn’t witness what her pregnancy was like, or how life with a newborn was for her. I’m also aware that kids are a ginormous free time and money suck, not to mention a freaking identity equalizer. I _know_ all this. I _know_ it’s not going to be easy. But knowing that, you really think I’d leave Artemis to deal with all of it by herself?”

“I didn’t think that at all,” Bruce said serenely. “Quite the contrary. Like I said… I merely wanted to hear it from you.”

“Fair enough. But I’m definitely not under any false pretenses about how it’s going to be,” I said. “And she and I… We have _added_ complications on top of the basic complications of this particular scenario. Shit icing on a shit cake with a shit cherry on top, if you will. There’s our collective Wally guilt, for one, the sort of expedited serious relationship thing, for another.” I sighed. “So… As far as real, comprehensive plans go, Bruce, I’m just kind of stumbling around, totally in the dark, hoping I’ll accidentally smack into the light switch, you know?”

Bruce nodded. “Well, two things you’ve already decided, each of equal import. One, that you’re keeping this child, and two, that you’re going to support Artemis. As for the full nature of that support, and what it indicates for your… _expedited serious_ relationship, I’m assuming that’s something the two of you plan on discussing at some point in the future.”

“You assume correctly,” I said, rubbing my pounding temples. 

“Well, allow me to be direct — are you considering marrying her?” Bruce asked.

I laughed. “Bruce, she told me point blank she’d pretty much string me up by my toenails and poke at me with sharp, pointy objects if I married her because I knocked her up.”

Bruce flat-out laughed, too, and I smiled, my chest warming. I _loved_ it when he laughed — his laughter was rare, _so_ rare, but always comprised of big, guttural, infectious belly laughs that inevitably would get you going, too. 

“Well, rest assured I’m not asking out of the whole ‘make an honest woman out of her’ bunk,” he said. “That’s not the issue here, or even why I ask. I just want to know if it’s something you could _see_ yourself considering down the road at some point, with Artemis, specifically. The two of you will be tied together for the rest of your lives, like it or not, and beyond just working together or being friendly. It’s something you ought to think about — what you would prefer the nature of your relationship to be, and how you’re going to approach caring for this child.”

“Well, I almost asked her on the spot, Bruce, believe it or not,” I told him. “But… I can’t help thinking —” I broke off and ran a hand through my hair, nervously rubbed the back of my neck. I heaved a sigh. “Wally was planning on asking her before he disappeared. You know he bought a ring and everything? I _already_ feel like an intruder, actually considering that step…” I trailed off, and stared dismally at my coffee.

Bruce nodded. “Well. Don’t worry about it for now. You _do_ still have time, Dick.”

“I guess,” I said.

“To that end, you mentioned a lack of concrete plans,” Alfred interjected. “What has Artemis proposed that the two of you do, if anything?”

I shook my head. “Alfred, I’m pretty sure she’s stumbling around in the dark every bit as much as I am.”

“Well, the both of you are on holiday, then, aren’t you?” Alfred asked. “Christmas and the New Year are coming up. Sounds to me like an ample opportunity for a bit of a mini-break — you know, get away for a while, clear your heads a bit, and get all this sorted without the white noise of daily life to interfere, as it were?”

I inclined my head. “That’s… not a bad idea, Alfred.” I turned my gaze to Bruce. “Boss man, you okay with giving me the requisite leave after dealing with Kuttler?”

Bruce nodded. “The house in Savannah was just fumigated and cleaned. You’re welcome to use that, if that’s a vacation spot you’re not opposed to. I’ll cover for you with the League until after the New Year.”

I grinned, unable to contain my infinite gratitude. “Fine by me, thanks, Bruce. _More_ than fine. I’ll check with Artemis when I get home. Crap, you know — I should probably get out of here. I’ve left her at the apartment all freaking day and she’s got to be bored out of her mind or chomping at the bit to get the info on our esteemed hacker.”

“Before you take your leave, Master Dick,” said Alfred, “what is the status of the larder in your apartment?”

I froze as I stood.

“I… invoke my Miranda Rights,” I said, then hastened to add, “I’ll stop at the store on the way back to Blüdhaven.”

“You mean to tell me that you left your pregnant lady friend in that drafty loft of yours with only those insipid cereals you favor for sustenance?”

“Hey, now,” I said with a chuckle, “I have a few different kinds. And milk. Pretty sure there’s mustard in my fridge, too. And I left her money to order in on the occasion Lucky Charms wouldn’t tickle her fancy.”

“And I repeat my customary inquiry, how on _earth_ are you still ambulatory?” Alfred said, and set about bustling around the kitchen. “And what an appalling absentee host you are. Has Miss Artemis brought up any foods of particular interest?”

“Not really,” I said ruefully. “Bring up any form of comestibles and she turns green.”

“I see,” said Alfred. “Ginger tea, then. I’ll put together a package of my homemade ginger tea bags for you, and show you how to prepare it properly. It will dispel the nausea straight off.”

“What did we do to deserve you, Alfred?” I asked, leaning on the counter, watching as he put together a ridiculously elaborate care package of sorts. “Pull a thorn out of your paw?”

“You have been kind enough to indulge my doting habits,” Alfred said, “which you are about to see multiply perhaps a thousandfold in a handful of months.”

I smiled. “You know, I think I’m kind of excited to see that.”

“As am I,” Bruce chimed in, his voice unwontedly light and warm. “And on that note, Dick — congratulations.”

I stared.

“Well,” I said, “it’s official. Freezing-ass day in hell.” 

But, as it happened, a _good_ freezing-ass day in hell, as I left Gotham via the Zeta armed with enough food to last me a month, homemade ginger tea and an operative knowledge of how to prepare it, and maybe a little more optimistic spring in my step than there had been that morning.


	9. 10-17-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all... <3 
> 
> Updating a little early...!! In all likelihood, I won't have time at ANY point tomorrow, since I foresee a lot of snooze button mashing in the morning and the rest of my day is booked with no room for ANYTHING else to get penciled in... Hope y'all don't mind. XD I'll go back to Wednesdays next week when things have hopefully settled a bit. <3 
> 
> Much love and thanks to Chibi_Nightowl and daisymagick for your awesomeness and being amazing betas. <3 You guys rock! ^_^
> 
> LOVE Y'ALL. :D
> 
> (I hope this note made ANY sense--I am freakin' WHACKED. T_T Send coffee, or help, doesn't matter which) XD
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo  
> ~EF <3

_October 17, 2019_

_Dick,_

_This is something I never talked to Wally about, or anyone, really. I didn’t talk to you about it, either, when I had the opportunity. Opening up and SPEAKING of it almost felt like admitting defeat, like coming clean and claiming wrongdoing on some level._

_YJ team jobs often landed me in my dad’s path, stuck my head right dead-freaking-center in his crosshairs. I was always a glass cage of emotion after those encounters, growing jumpy and eventually taking to ventilating that overload of feeling by beating the absolute CRAP out of every poor, hapless crook we busted on the job. It spilled over into my personal life, making normally easy, commonplace tasks like studying and homework and even just BF/GF time with Wally labors of Hercules — I just couldn’t CONCENTRATE. I was so sure Dad was waiting for me around every corner with some entourage of Shadows, ready to claim his human artillery. Over time, I no longer derived any active joy from working with Young Justice, as I began to realize that I may have shared more in my old man’s propensity for violence than I wanted to admit… or find out._

_Wally was ready for normalcy. At his core, he was a salt-of-the-earth, corn-fed, good ol’ Missouri boy. (That whole thing ought to be a proper noun.) He craved action and adventure like many pre-teen boys do, and UNlike those same many pre-teen boys, he actually was able to LIVE that action and adventure — and then, having expunged it from his system post-puberty, he decided it wasn’t for him in the long run. He wanted what his parents had, what he had with them — tranquility, contentment, fulfillment. 9-5, wife, kids, house, minivan (not Murdervan), dog. Without being interrupted by psychotic criminal overlords and magic-slingers and plots to take over the universe (literally.)_

_So… His timing was spot-on. As I fretted about traits I potentially shared with my father, and worried over whether I was truly the hero I thought I was after dishing out one broken nose too many, Wally decided he was burned out on his bathroom sustained silent reading time unfailingly getting bombed by pages to the Watchtower, and always, as he put it, “under circumstances that make you wonder if people aren’t inherently just painful levels of stupid.” He asked how I’d feel about quitting the life, leaving it behind, pursuing a future with him. Didn’t have to be anything majorly serious-face, he said, but… Maybe we could do campus housing, see what it’s like to just enjoy a life of twenty-something normality, focusing on our life together._

_Maybe he sensed how I felt, what I struggled with. I never spoke of it, but Wally knew my cues. I'm sure he knew it was time. And… honestly, he had me hook, line, and sinker at “our life together.” I was tired, Dick — tired of ne’er-do-wells crashing events I looked forward to (Prom, Bette’s senior party, Linguistics Department formal dinner for the foreign exchange liaisons at GA… ’nuff said), tired of walking that tightrope between civilian life and team life, tired of balancing home and work. But most of all? I was tired of being AFRAID all the time. Afraid that my DNA, that nature, and not nurture, would win. I quit because I was afraid of my own damn self. And that Wally wanted to have a “life together?” That someone as incredible and amazing and kind and sweet and cute as him wanted A LIFE TOGETHER with me? The salty, tempestuous daughter of one ex-con and one active? He didn’t have to ask me twice. I said yes so fast the wind of my words’ passing would have torn shingles from rooftops._

_I was so excited, just SO ready to start shopping for housing and picking out curtains and hanging up pictures and bringing home pets. You know, to just take a stab (ha!) at a normal life. What better way to separate myself from what my father wanted than by getting as far out of the soup pot as proverbially possible? I saw that whole thing as not only the beginning of a fairy tale, but as the ultimate middle finger sent ballistic missile style at my dad. Suck it, Pop. :P_

_That process was soooooooo much fun, moving in, nesting, striking out on this next journey. It was the happiest I’d ever been, working on stitching together the bits of fabric to create my new life. But… Like all things, all projects, all new beginnings, you have to finish up sometime._

_The first blissful weeks went by and turned into equally rosy months. Then the months passed, their shiny edges dulling, all of time morphing into an even, predictable, bump-free, enervating routine, every day the same exact thing of up, gym, shower, school, work, home, walk the dog, study, Wally, bed. A scratched record, a skipping CD, a cyclical film reel. By the time a year had gone by, I woke up each morning feeling as though I waited for something, as though I’d forgotten something important, but just couldn’t place it. And no matter how hard I tried to fill in the gaps, this nebulous something stalwartly refused to take shape in my mind. And then I felt, as even more time went on, that I’d lost an operative piece of myself — as though I were a machine, running without a critical part. A part I couldn’t identify, an issue I couldn’t diagnose. I was restless and listless all at once, half-invested at best in the world around me, present in body, absent in mind, my thoughts always millions of miles away as I went through the motions of my suddenly overwhelmingly humdrum life._

_It's not to say I wasn't happy with Wally, Dick — oh, my god, the very opposite. I loved every minute I spent with him. Every second. Every NANOsecond. I absolutely treasured the contentment he brought to my life, the silly little not-arguments, how he vindicated the doldrums singlehanded, just by being his fun, bouncy self. Even trivial things like walking Brucely to go get cake pops and playing MarioKart and reading or studying together. Being with him always distanced me from the pervasive ennui. But busy, conflicting schedules, different (and strenuous) majors, and my obnoxious, demanding campus job often kept us on infinitesimal leashes, making it hard to find time to connect. Even speedsters can't be everywhere at once, and neither can heroes._

_It was a Thursday, I remember that much. Wally was out for his occasional “Man Night” with his Stanford pals, playing darts (and embarrassing himself) at the bar he and his buddies liked. As we know, Thursday is the start of the weekend in college speak (Thirsty Thursdays, amirite??) I considered these Man Nights the perfect opportunities to have some intense girl time — by myself. (Was Smilla’s predecessor, Prudence, a ready companion on these one woman Girl’s Nights every so often…? I plead the Fifth.) I usually used these little evenings free to knock out all my school work and catch up on my beloved shoujo anime that Wally openly and humorously disdained. I didn’t normally go out with friends — I had acquaintances, sure, and each one as nice as the next, but other than the occasional outing for coffee or shopping or jogging, I kind of kept to myself at Stanford. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with my classmates, quite the contrary._

_It was more… I just couldn’t seem to relate to many of them, Dick. Not on a deep, bond-inspiring level, anyway. I couldn’t stop the feeling that I was an outsider any more than an unfortunate roach can stop a boot. I never felt a sense of kinship with my fellow students, never felt that I belonged. It was like another Gotham Academy — just with a little more representation (I’m so glad I had you and Barb there, on that note.) And each time I sat down next to a nice girl from say, my Psycholinguistics class, I just couldn’t shake the knowledge that I was the daughter of assassins, that I was just some poor girl from the Bowery in Gotham, that I once was Artemis the Archer, and that I had SEEN some shit that I could never share. And I didn’t WANT them to know anything about me, didn’t want to let them get close enough to LEARN who I really was. There was a barrier between me and them — a feeling that I was irresolvably different. I was… very isolated in Cali._

_And yes. Maybe I isolated myself._

_But there’s a safety in isolation, isn’t there? And I was always taught the less people know, the safer you are. In Dad’s case, from the law, from restitution. In my case, from being hurt or abandoned — that simple._

_So I was sitting that Thursday night by myself on the couch with Brucely, watching my beloved Mars and making my two token girlfriends on opposite ends of the US proud trying my hand at knitting. As I bonked casting off for the umpteenth time that evening, I abruptly lost all patience with the stupid craft and chucked it to the floor, and just felt desperately antsy and bored and… lonely. Wally wasn’t one to do the bros-before-hoes thing much, so I didn’t want to be the dreaded Needy Girlfriend (dun dunnn), pestering him to pay constant attention to his ball-and-chain. Zatanna and Kaldur I knew were working for the League. M’gann was in the early rebound honeymoon phase with La’gaan, meaning no room for a spare tire like me. Conner, as such, was in a totally pissy mood all the time, thanks to that, so I had a feeling we’d emulate some failed chemistry experiment and destroy the apartment if I invited him over to hang out. And there wasn’t anyone else I particularly felt like beckoning into my space._

_Well. Maybe there was one… wink-wink, nudge-nudge._

_I texted you._

“ _I’m booooooooored,” I griped, or something to that effect. I didn’t really expect a response, assuming you were busy, too._

 _But… lo and behold, perhaps a half-hour later, I got one._

“ _Me, toooooooo… But this super-exciting Computational Fluid Dynamics project ain’t no porn star, it’s not going to do itself :P”_

“ _Want some company to poke you awake as you work on that… blah blah whatever?” I sent. “Door’s wide open… and so are the Zetas, last I checked. I can get caught up on my Vietnamese reviews and you can poke ME awake if need be :D”_

“ _Where the heck’s Wally?” you texted. “Isn’t it like… not empirically possible to be bored when he’s around?”_

“ _Man Night :P,” I replied. “Come on, Dick, I’m bored out of my mind. I need some company before I wind up spending the rest of my natural life in a padded room where they feed me pancakes without syrup through a slot in the wall and I rock in a straitjacket in a corner claiming Peter Pan stole my shadow.”_

“ _Wally going to be mad if he catches you Homework and Chilling with this here specimen of flawless virility?”_

“ _Please. He’ll join in,” I sent, snickering, hearkening to a joke you and I shared more than once._

“ _He wishes,” you wrote. “This sweet ass is reserved for Chris Evans, k?”_

“ _Someday he’ll wrap you up in those big, strong arms :P,” I sent. “You coming?”_

“ _Why, yes, I do believe so. Give me about twenty minutes?”_

“ _Sold,” I responded, and, relieved, sat back to wait for you._

 _You showed up all fetching and cute, proudly displaying your One-Punch Man fandom (you love your Mumen Rider… DORK), armed not just with your schoolbag, but your gym bag, too._

“ _What’s that for?” I asked, indicating it._

“ _Dude, I’ve been abusing my brain cells all day,” you said. “I don’t know about you, but I could REALLY go for some sparring with my favorite archer before I keep cracking on that goddamn project. You game?”_

 _I leapt to my feet, sending Brucely skittering startled to the floor._

“ _Oh, fuck YES, I’m game — Dick, I’m DYING over here, I HAVE to see some action before my head explodes. Let me get ready —”_

 _I don’t even think I finished that sentence before I’d sprinted to the bedroom and slammed the door so I could change._

_We ended up sparring in an empty, reasonably lit soccer field on campus. Palo Alto doesn’t see a whole lot in the way of rain, but it had gotten a decent drenching a couple of days before, and the pitch was muddy and wet. We warmed up jogging around the field a bit (I refused to show you that, although I exercised regularly, I’d comparatively fallen somewhat out of shape… Do you know how hard it is to pretend to NOT be winded when you’re about to wheeze and puff the start of a hurricane on the other side of the globe? It’s hard, Dick. HARD.) Then we got sparring, trading blows, kind of darting around each other, sharing little goofy verbal jabs and gaffes, too, until the little taps and swings evolved into grappling. THAT spiraled downward damn fast into straight-up mud wrestling. I was, as I just mentioned, actually rusty as hell, but you were kind enough to go easy on me without making it obvious. I whooped like a loon when I got you pinned face-first in the muck. (Don’t say you didn’t let me, by the way — I know you did.) :P_

_You managed to right yourself as I lost my grip on you in a fit of laughter over some stupid comment you made, and then you up and pinned ME under you (in my case, though, I was face-up.) I dramatically pretended to flail and struggle and begged you in a bad impression of a Southern Belle to romance me elsewhere, for I simply couldn’t bear to surrender my sacred flower in such swinish surroundings! And… there was a pause._

_It was a SHORT pause. VERY short. But something flitted through that moment, lightning fast and incorporeal, too quick to be named or identified. You took the opportunity in the wake of that innominate Something to let me up, and we sat, side by side, on the pitch, and just talked for a long, long time under a sky full of stars. I felt ELECTRIC — alive, robust, vital, all rough-and-ready._

_So when we packed it in to head home and witnessed trouble a-brewing… I was FUCKING GAME._

_The trouble came in the form of a thief — a BICYCLE thief. A common crime, as bikes were a highly sought after commodity on campus. I was in the moment and totally high on life — I didn’t even think, Dick, once I put two-and-two together, watching the bike zoom past at nigh light speed, followed shortly after by a desperate pedestrian in winded, tuckering pursuit. I took off at a dead sprint after the absconding thief._

_That left you to get info from the bike’s owner and call campus security. Sorry I left you with the more tedious stuff. I hope you understand (although I’m sure you do.)_

_I beat a fast path across the grounds, arms pumping to generate MORE speed, keeping sight of the thief as he turned into an alley. Seeing my chance, I broke across the quad to head him off, leaping atop the flat-top roof of a one-story dorm building with the aid of a dumpster. When he appeared around the corner, I leapt headlong at him from the low roof (death from above! The Winged Shadow! Ahhhh!), and slammed him, the bike, and myself into a giant pile of trash bags conveniently piled against the wall of the building across the alley (someone up there loved me that night.) I gave chase on foot when the guy got back up and took off, catching up to the thief just as campus security showed up, lights flashing and megaphones blaring. In spite of my kamikaze dive into the bicycle and cutpurse (cutbicycle?), the newbie crook didn’t have a scratch or a bump on him, and the bike was in fine shape, completely undamaged. (I wasn't so lucky.) The original owner of the bike was effusively grateful, even if he sputtered when he heard about the cockamamie way I took out the would-be bicycle purloiner. (It occurred to me in hindsight that I could have really hurt all three of us, bike included. Like I said, RUSTY.)_

_I was covered head-to-toe in mud (so were you, so were you…), bruised and scraped all over, favoring my left leg (I strained my quad at some point), smelled like muck and wet garbage, and had a massive goose egg on my temple, but God DAMN, I felt good, Dick. SO good. And when you looked at me — with so much PRIDE, like you just thought I was the coolest cat in all the land, like you were awed just to share oxygen with me — I only felt better. We refueled with the Greek Street food truck on the corner near the campus house I shared with Wally, eliciting a few questions from the vendors at our muck-splattered attire and my apparent run-in with a tyrannosaurus._

_Explaining our muddied, giggling, battered, buzzing selves to Wally was just a ridiculous trip — the two wayward teenagers caught on some ill-advised, juvenile caper and dragged home by long-suffering parents, as all the while they jocundly declared to one another, “TOTALLY WORTH IT.” He’d beaten us to the house, and when we walked in, all adrenaline and dripping mud, he had more than a few bemused questions for us. Luckily, he was a hair drunk (wtf were his friends making him imbibe??? Frat boys, I tell ya…) and in a splendid mood. Score!_

_I’m laughing, but I can’t help but remember that pause, with you over me, straddling my midsection — it FINALLY, FINALLY occurred to me just now, years later, what that nameless something was that I felt in that moment! (Lightbulb!)_

_It was attraction — wasn’t it…?? Well, that’s a strong word, maybe, so… a spark? TENSION. Of a certain carnal variety, heh heh. Oh, la, good sir, what would people make of that??_

_I honestly don’t know if you felt it, too, thinking on it now. I myself didn’t even know what it was I felt, not at the time. In a monogamous, committed, loving relationship, that aspect of my awareness was just kind of shut off, disconnected. It was little more than a tiny moment of semi-awkward silence during which I felt a minute heart-skip, nothing of note. I didn’t even think about it one time after that._

_You know, though, I wonder… had I been single that night, had I NOT been seriously involved with someone who just happened to be important to both of us when that heated pause passed between us… I wonder if I would have HAPPILY let you fuck me right there in that mud puddle, shameless, like a pair of minks in the woods._

_Well, that's neither here nor there. :P_

_Either way, that was the same night I started to actively wonder how I was feeling — REALLY feeling — about my life, what I was doing with it, what my future looked like. Everything was, as I mentioned, tranquil and uninterrupted and even-paced and painfully, dully predictable. Unfulfilling. Vacuous. Leaving me with the all-at-once overpowering, unformed sense that I had somehow missed my calling, whatever it was._

_And I had finally found the itch, except I didn’t know if it was one I could scratch. Apprehending that “cutbicycle” (ha, ha!) had alleviated that itch, the one that had aggravated me for so long I’d become numb to it, only realizing how much it irritated me when it was momentarily appeased._

_And here’s the punchline… (Drumroll, please…)_

_I realized that I liked the IDEA of a normal life more than I actually liked a normal life. I didn’t necessarily KNOW where I wanted to go from there, if heroism was something I wanted to dip back into, if that was the way to relieve the now burning, torturesome itch that overtook me from the inside out. If the risks were worth it, or if my fears were founded. If the next life steps would accomplish the same thing as poking around in the game again, those being marriage, starting a family with Wally. But if I thought I was restless before, I was flat-out EXERTIVE then. I needed something to fill my suddenly achingly empty spaces, quiet the clamor of the endless voices that begged me for SOMETHING MORE._

_And then… you called. Needing me. My skills. Specifically what I could offer, and because, in your words, you trusted me, and believed in my abilities. You had faith in me. “There’s no one I would trust to do this more than you.”_

_I don’t even think you finished stating your case and detailing the nature of the mission you proposed before I popped off with a loud, resounding, absolute YES._

_Was it out of wanting so desperately to scratch the itch that bothered me so insistently? Was it out of wanting to ride the old rushes of adrenaline I used to live for? Was it out of moral obligation to the fabled Greater Good, out of wanting to connect with old, increasingly estranged friends? Was it to tide me over and deflect my pervasive fatigue until I got to strike out on the cherished next steps of marriage and kids? And if anyone else had asked me… Would I have accepted?_

_I really can’t say, Dick. But… even if a lot of that mission went south in so many ways before it got back on the upswing, even if it was the cause of a lot of sleepless nights and heartburn for both of us (and more, besides), I’m so, so, SO glad you approached me for it. I learned a lot about how you really felt, REALLY regarded me when you did._

_Thank you for always having faith in me. For BELIEVING in me. For trusting me._

_Whatever happens, I’ll try to uphold that. I promise._

_More later._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  



	10. 12-23-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! <3
> 
> Well, have some fluff! <3 Apologies if this chapter is a bit on the boring/sappy side. *bows* But... *psssttt* This one and the next are the calm before the storm... :O So hang in there, it picks up SOON! :D Thank y'all for your patience. :D
> 
> Much love!! <3 ^_^
> 
> Thanks as always to Chibi_Nightowl and daisymagick for beta reading! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF <3

_December 23, 2018_

_Artemis_

I froze at the door to my mom’s apartment, my hand arrested on the knob. _The time has come, the walrus said…_ I thought to myself, my fingers starting to tremble. And indeed, the time _had_ come — _to talk of many things._ Namely… to inform my mother of the fact that Lian was no longer to be her only grandchild. I _really_ wasn’t looking forward to this little confab — but it seemed unforgivably wrong to keep my mom in the dark. I clenched my teeth, then turned to look at Dick when his hand grasped my shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, Artemis,” he said reassuringly (for approximately the eight thousandth time since leaving Blüdhaven.) “I’ll be right there with you.”

“I’m not sure if even _you_ being there is going to keep her from killing me, Ye Who Charms the Stripes Off Tigers,” I said, tightening my hand on the knob. “Oh. Just FYI, I want to be cremated. It’s a little more environmentally friendly. And I don’t need a fancy urn or anything, just a Tupperware container you keep in your freezer will do me fine.”

He snorted. “I’ll be sure to label your container appropriately. Do not eat, expired December 23rd, 2018 AD. Do the same for me if I die, will you?”

I sighed. “Well, here goes nothing…”

“You’ve been saying that a lot this weekend,” Dick observed. “Listen. Let’s give your mom the benefit of the doubt — I mean, this is a pretty serious Christmas gift, right? So who knows, maybe she’ll surprise you.”

“Yeah, how?” I said skeptically.

He smiled. “Only one way to find out. Let’s get her, Tiger.”

And in I walked, straight into the belly of the beast, armed only with the power of the Boy Wonder’s famous charm. 

So… it turned out that Dick, my new, unannounced, but officialized boyfriend, was right — my mom deserved at least _some_ benefit of the doubt.

We didn’t do anything cutesy or twee to break the news to her (let’s do a little word search…! What, you found the words _congratulations_ and _grandma?!)_ Considering the situation, something fluffy and syrupy seemed garishly out of place. I was never one for sentimentality, anyway, although _Dick_ was certainly proving himself to be. 

(Yes. The crossword was actually an idea he pitched. Did I laugh in his face? 

…I have the right to remain silent.)

Instead, we opted to just sit down with her over some of her favorite and rarely afforded Indian takeout (really, truly, a little bribe never hurts…), and then dropped the news on her like a cartoon anvil straight out of _Looney Tunes_.

She sat unspeaking for a moment, and I sweated bullets with anticipation that her silence came merely from the fact that she was amping herself up to _really_ bring the noise.

“This is…” she began, focusing on her dinner plate. “Artemis, this is… it’s _good_ news, I’m… I’m excited, but… what will you do about school? What about your job prospects? You’ll have to tell whoever interviews you that you’ll need maternity leave… They can’t _fire_ you or turn you away because of it, but… they don’t have to _say_ that’s why they didn’t bring you on… What will you do?” 

Well.

Cue a moment of crickets.

That was slightly less awful than I anticipated — I actually wound up speechless for a moment, staring at her, waiting for the other shoe to go _plunk_ to the floor.

I mean, I had _expected_ my mother to go full nuclear from her chair, waving her arms in one of her incandescent, awe-inspiring rages, hollering at me forcefully about how I _needed_ to do X, Y, and Z in order “not to make the same mistakes she did and live a life different from hers” (I’d heard that well-meaning rant oh, _thousands_ of times by then.) Instead, to my vast astonishment, there she sat, clearly torn between joy and concern, offering gentle, entirely practical and reasonable remonstrations. I blinked.

“I’ll be okay,” I told her, taken aback, “I mean, thankfully, I have some of the best references in not only the city, but pretty much the universe, too. A degree from Stanford with a Master’s from Gotham U won’t hurt my prospects, either. And school’s doable, too — I’ll be done before I’m due. I mean… I think.”

“When _are_ you due?”

“We don’t know definitively yet… I see the doc next Thursday, though,” I said, pulling uncomfortably at a lock of my hair. “Summer, I guess? July, August?”

“Artemis, that doesn’t give you much time to find something, not before you have this baby, and you’ll have to work all the way up until you give birth, probably… I know that doesn’t sound so terrible now, but believe me, it will only get more and more difficult to try working your life around this change, and it’s a change I don’t know you realize how _big_ yet —”

“If I may, Mrs. Crock…” Dick interjected gently, “and I don’t know if this will help, but I promise, Artemis won’t be facing this on her own. I’ll support her in every way I can, and trust me, finding work won’t be an issue for her, added element to this equation or no — she has a host of skills all on her own that will make it a total cinch to find a very decent job.”

(I totally preened under those words. I can’t even _try_ saying I didn’t. I beamed happily as I dug into my food with renewed vigor.)

My mom surprised me further by softening, and smiling at Dick. “You don’t need to call me Mrs. Crock,” she told him. “I think you’ve graduated to calling me Paula.” She sighed, and sifted through her shahi paneer. “I know you’re right. I just… hate to see my daughter struggle even more after all she’s been through already. And… while a child is a gift, mothering is a _struggle,_ especially as young and… at the _beginning_ as the both of you are.”

“Paula,” Dick said, “I’ll promise you right now, this won’t be a struggle for Artemis. I’ll be there to help her, every step of the way.”

“I appreciate that sentiment, Dick, but… regardless, it’s more of a struggle than I think either of you can understand right now. You’ll start out _thinking_ you know how much it’s going to take, but then you’ll catch yourself looking back and wishing it took so little. As for Artemis, she’ll be balancing school, and work in the Linguistics department, and her work with Young Justice, and soon her adult career, as well as this child. She’ll very likely have to give up at least one of those things. I’m not sure what she expects of you —”

“Can _I_ maybe say something?” I groused. “I mean, I _am_ right here…”

Dick reached over and squeezed my hand appeasingly with a rueful smile. “Sorry, babe.”

Mollified, I turned my attention to my mother. “Mom, listen. It won’t be like it was for you. I have a lot of prospects and connections, and also a _lot_ of support. Not to mention this Perfect Ten.” I humorously clasped Dick’s face in my hand. I felt his smile dimple his cheeks under my fingers.

“Can we depend on you?” Mom asked Dick, ignoring my efforts at levity, leveling on him a stare that I knew she had to have reserved once for her unfortunate quarries. “Can we _really_ depend on you to take care of her? Of them? You’re young, Dick. _So_ young. You might not realize what _youth_ you’ll be giving up to do this now —”

“Mom,” I interrupted. 

“What, Artemis?”

“Just — I’m pretty sure Dick forcibly gave up his youth years ago,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to be tactful. 

“It’s okay,” Dick said. “Listen, Paula, I _know_ what this indicates for me, and I’m perfectly okay with it. I’m _not_ as okay with what it represents for Artemis, though — it requires a lot more sacrifice from her than it does from me, trust me, I know that. That being said, I plan on doing all I can to make this as painless as possible for her. And… not to sound imperious or patronizing or anything, but I’m more than able to provide for her and I have a _lot_ of help lined up. So… yes, absolutely, you can depend on me. I’ll take care of them. That’s a promise.” 

I squirmed in my chair. 

“…Well, are you planning on getting married?” Mom asked.

 _Ugh._ The inevitable question from everyone. 

“Do we have to talk about that now?” I asked hurriedly, my face going blazing hot. “We’ve only _just_ officialized the whole boyfriend-girlfriend title…”

“I was only curious, Artemis,” she assured me. “It’s not a necessary step. But _do_ you have any real, specific plans from here?”

“Well, that’s kind of what we’re going to Savannah next week for,” Dick said conciliatingly. “To figure out those plans.”

“But you’re keeping it?” asked Mom. “This baby?”

I nodded. “Yeah, Mom.”

“Paula,” said Dick in that sincere, comforting tone only he could achieve, “it will be okay. I’m here for them. That's a promise. And if there's one thing both my father figures have taught me, it's to keep my word and always take responsibility. So I swear on my dad’s grave — you can count on me.” He looked down, somber. “And I don’t say that lightly.”

She smiled, breathed a prayer in Vietnamese, and then reached over to me to clasp my hand, then to Dick to clasp his. I was shocked even more still to see tears welling in her eyes. 

“Artemis,” she said. “I’m happy. Really, I am. _So_ happy.”

I smiled back, overcome suddenly, and blinked as my own eyes filled. 

“I must ask,” she said, sobering. “Does your father know?”

“No,” I assured her, “and I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.”

“Well,” she said fiercely, “he _won’t_ be hearing it from me.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, heartened.

 _That was… fairly painless,_ I thought, helping myself to another mound of curry, an insistent smile tugging at my lips.

The remainder of dinner passed amiably, the conversation easy and, dare I say it, _fun,_ finished out with mango lassi for dessert (which, incidentally, went down more easily than the actual meal for me — I’d be fat in short order with all the sugar and empty carbs I’d been pounding.) Then, wrapping up in the warm, shaggy blankets my mother splurged on when she first got out of prison like a trio of cozy polar bears, we congregated in front of the television to pick through some shows. 

At least… until Dick’s team only cell went off, indicated by the _Mario_ game over ringtone.

He checked the screen, and looked regretfully at both of us.

“Sorry, ladies,” he said, “duty calls. Again. I’d better make like a bread truck and haul buns to meet Babs for a bit of espionage.” He leaned down, and kissed my forehead. “Left you yesterday, and this morning… Shaping up to be a pretty lousy beau so far. You going to be okay?”

I snorted. “You know, Pops, this kid is _really_ in for it, if how you’re treating me is any indication… You going to condemn the poor thing to a Pentecostal existence or something?”

He smirked. “Maybe — especially if it’s a girl. Pray for her in that case — she’ll need it.”

I laughed. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do. See you later, Mama Crock.” 

“Thanks for dinner, Dick,” said Mom, smiling. 

“No problem,” he told her, lifting a hand in a cheerful wave. “Take care of Arty while I’m gone, okay?”

Mom chuckled. “She _is_ my daughter, you know. Will we see you tomorrow for the holiday?”

“Count me in,” he said with a grin, and as was his wont, vanished into the night like a ghost of a thought.

I lay on the floor on my side, my head pillowed on a stray cushion, and finished out an episode of _I Love Lucy_ with Mom. As the end music took over, I stretched, at once properly exhausted (and honestly kind of shot of feeling like masticated crap.) 

“Mom,” I announced with a jaw-cracking yawn, rising to my feet, “I think I’m headed to Bedfordshire. I’m totally fried.”

She nodded, something like nostalgia crossing her features. “Mmm. The fatigue _._ That was always my first clue.”

I laughed. “You know, you really should have _told_ me about that part of things.”

She smiled. “Well, you never asked.”

I paused, weighted under a slowly descending mantle of regret. It was true that I never asked my mother about what her pregnancies were like — or asked her about much of anything, really. My dander was normally _way_ up with my mother, all of my reflexes wired for the defensive, every response automated to a verbal palisade. But it abruptly dawned on me, standing there in that moment, that I understood _why_ she had always been so hyper-attuned to how I went about my life, why she’d comported herself, in my mind hitherto, like a micromanager with nothing to do except bark orders. How had I not wrapped my slow, stupid head around it before?

Moved all at once by a powerful inpouring of feeling, I approached her chair, bent down, and hugged her. Not exactly customary for me where she was concerned — and I could sense how taken aback and disarmed she was as she reached up, and hugged me in return. 

She _deserved_ it, and much more, I realized, bending down with my arms around my mom’s small, bony shoulders — her unanticipated favorable reaction to what might have been considered unfortunate news overwhelmingly reminded me of how much my mother had overcome for my sake, how unfailingly she’d supported me, how deeply she’d cared, and how unconditionally she’d _been there_ for me throughout the years. All of her obnoxious expostulating coming from a place of love and caring and concern, her constant fretting and supposed slave-driving born only of wanting a better life for me than the endless hell she’d endured in hers. 

I tightened my hold on her in a little squeeze, inwardly giving myself a sound kick in the rear. How could I have failed to understand my mother as I should have until then? How did I not see it — that, with the exception of the time she unfairly spent locked away in the clink (which, honestly, I hold my dad responsible for), she was always, _always_ at hand, always available, always a firm, loving, stable presence, all too often unappreciated? Why hadn’t I at least _tried_ to understand her, see things from her perspective, _communicate_ with her? God, how ungrateful and _clueless_ I was — and how vastly unfair to this truly incredible woman. 

I kissed her cheek, warmed through with a new inrush of love and heightened fondness for my mother. “Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Artemis. Get your rest.”

I made my way to my room to get ready for bed, discovering that, for the first time in oh, _eons,_ I was calm — and happy.

Oh, my God.

I was _happy._

  
  
  



	11. 10-22-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hulloooooo! <3
> 
> This is on a request from a reader! <3 Not sure how SERIOUS of a request it was, but it had too much potential not to add it in, in the end. :D <3 So... you know who you are... and this one's for you, dear, if you're still around and reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> As always, thanks Chibi_Nightowl and daisymagick for your beta work! <3 ^_^
> 
> ENJOY. :D
> 
> Much love, all!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_October 22, 2019_

_Dick,_

_So… This is a letter I will have to guard inside a freaking Dybbuk box, since the memory that I JUST CAN’T SHAKE is more than a little risqué… But for all it’s a bit compromising, I can’t help but remember it fondly. Maaayyybe a little more fondly than you. :P Ha, ha!_

_It wasn’t long after we started looking into possibly moving into that subdivision up the way from Wayne Manor — the one you said would be a good mid-point between my mom and Bruce — that we discovered a shop called the “Olde Une Theatre…” essentially a stomping grounds for locals to get their kink on. My belly was still little and round and cute and not the freaking hot air balloon that eventually overtook my form and left me looking like the damn Hindenburg, so I still felt sufficiently confident rocking a cute set of undies, and was also still willing to you know, TRY things. (Oh, and I had titties! Nice ones! Full ones!) Anyway, our first time in there, we were just kind of perusing the store, going to great pains to remain anonymous (we already got hounded by local press given the excitement and curiosity about our blossoming romance.)_

_You held up a Magnum condom, and said, in an affected voice, “So… if you’re pregnant, and you have sex, can your baby get pregnant?”_

_I arched a brow. “Umm… Yes. And then if you have sex enough, your baby’s baby can get pregnant. And on down the line.” I paused, and giggled._

“ _You laugh — but that was an actual question on Yahoo! Answers once upon a time.” You hung the condom back up with one of those toothy, shit-eating grins of yours that reminded me of Dennis the Menace and a toothpaste ad._

“ _Uh, you’re fist-fucking me,” I said eloquently, agog._

“ _Fist-fucking you not,” you replied, “unless… you know, you WANT me to.”_

“ _No, thanks,” I said, giving you a smirk. “I’ll fist YOU if you want, though.”_

“ _A dream come true,” you said. “Speaking of dreams and fantasies… is there anything you’re like… interested in trying out that you haven’t yet?”_

“ _How do you know I haven’t tried everything there is to try?” I asked, eyeing you over a hanging pair of plastic boobs (I can only guess those things were supposed to be a bachelor party prop.)_

“ _Hmm. A rack on a rack. Rack-ception,” you remarked about the artificial mammories. “So wait, Wally wasn’t a button-down boy?”_

“ _He certainly was not,” I affirmed, smirking again, pinching a plastic nipple._

_You covered your mouth in mock horror. “You think you know a guy…”_

_I laughed. “Well, while he wasn’t a button-down boy, the one thing I was really the most curious about, he was NOT open to.”_

“ _Yeah, what was that?”_

_I figured you’d laugh the next part off or fail to take me even remotely seriously, so I answered your question with zero shame._

“ _Pegging,” I replied. “Ah, speaking of. Look at that entire wall of beautiful strap-ons. It’s like a work of art. Oh, and conveniently, right next to an impressive selection of lubricant.” I sighed wistfully. “Ah, if only…”_

_You just kind of studied the wall of strap-ons (some of which would have been more proportionately bestowed on a horse or an elephant) and then looked over at me with the same conspiratorial look you’d gotten just before the orgasm seminar._

“ _Are you, uh… for REAL interested in giving the old act of pegging a try?” you asked. Not judgmentally, not jokingly, not even in a way that sounded shocked._

_I considered, and inclined my head. “Yeah, actually. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to uh… you know, plow versus GET plowed.”_

_Again, that conspiratorial look. “Well, you want to find out?”_

_It took a second for that to register, and when it did, I think my jaw wound up in the carpet somewhere._

“ _Wait, are you serious?” I said, once I’d hinged the thing back on._

_You grinned. “Sure, I’m open to the idea.”_

_I lifted my brows. “Really? You’re actually willing to give it a shot?”_

_You confirmed that yes, you were. Very willing, in fact. You said you’d give it “a literal shot.” (Ha!) I was so shocked I can’t remember the rest of the interlude. But once I got the doctor’s okay (after, and I remember THIS well, a bout of hysterical laughter between the two of us) and the list of cautionaries to bear in mind, we got the requisite tools for the upcoming job, and headed to the apartment in Blüdhaven. All the while, totally abuzz with excitement and nerves, I read up on pegging, and what I needed to know._

_Apparently, what I needed most was to be flattered. Pegging, as I learned perusing contributed articles on Nik and Mila’s website, requires a LOT of trust and openness and total acceptance of one’s partner. Reading that, knowing you were okay enough with this to actually go through with it WITH ME… I just looked over at you, overcome by something nameless as you focused on the road. Your hair was all tousled and shiny, you were wearing one of those fitted athletic shirts you occasionally favored, you had on your repurposed watch, which somehow looked sharp and virile on your perfectly-formed wrist (statues everywhere wept for shame over your wrists being better than theirs.) The sunglasses you wore looked good on you, giving you that mysterious, incognito vibe the girls and I used to giggle about before you shared your identity with us. (Imagine my surprise when I learned you were none other than the dorky little frosh that hopped up next to me on my first day of school at GA and snapped that selfie.)_

_I had no doubts in my mind how I felt about you._

_I was… IN LUST with you!!_

_I’m kidding. It wasn’t that. Well, maybe not just that. But I had a LOT of feelings, gazing like a creep-o at you from the passenger seat, sappy and overcome with warm, fuzzy emotions._

_Dick. I know I’ve brought this up already, but I will again, because it’s important to me. You TRUSTED me. You were OPEN to me. You ACCEPTED me. No limitations, no conditions, no fine print, no hangups, no hesitations. I wrangled with an endless sense that no one fully trusted me, no matter how much time we spent together, no matter how hard I worked to prove myself, no matter how I bent over backwards to MAKE myself trustworthy. All on me, I know. Entirely in my own head. But it dawned on me as I sat there just staring (hi, my name is Artemis, and I’m a creeper… Hello, Artemis), you had never done anything other than unfailingly trust, accept, and believe in me — and make me FEEL trusted, accepted, and believed in. Whether or not I deserved it._

_I leaned over, for some reason feeling a bit like tearing up like a hopeless sap, and laid my head on your shoulder. We rode like that the rest of the way home._

_And then… we pegged._

_For all it was plowing you with a strap-on, which made me feel so ridiculous I couldn’t help but laugh at myself, looking down at the indignant length of manufactured penis (there were wrinkles and veins worked into it, I mean, come on, REALLY??) poking out all derpy and proud under my distending belly, it was actually… kind of romantic! Who’da figured, eh?? We lit candles, made the bed with some nice, soft sheets, turned on some low-key music. And then, once we’d kind of evolved into, uh, positioning ourselves after a bit of foreplay, an alternately hilarious and squicky thought occurred to me._

“ _Oh, my God, it’s an mpreg fantasy,” I giggled helplessly into the bare skin of your back, which got you giggling, and which ultimately delayed the process even more than our own nerves and giddiness had already._

_So…_

_It went well, especially for a first time, according to the forum on the website of all things Nik and Mila. I used plenty of lube, took it slow, and most importantly, didn’t force anything, as excited and full of indecent adrenaline as I was. You were (unsurprisingly) very cooperative, only tensing up when experiencing unfamiliar sensations and the occasional moment of discomfort. I wrapped my arms around you, my hands cupping your chest, not actually FEELING anything on my end, but relishing every single little gasp, moan, and sigh you issued, every shiver, every involuntary response. Eventually, you REALLY started getting noisy — making deeper-pitched bleating sounds that crescendoed soon after into full-on shouts — rising up, arching your back around my belly, pressing your face to mine. That’s when I closed a hand around that beautiful lingam of yours, and just worked you for all I was worth, from both angles, until I had you screaming so loud I started laughing, certain the neighbors would hear us (although I stayed sub-rosa about my amusement— I didn’t want to make you think I was laughing at you. I wasn’t. Just at the overall discomposure of the situation if the neighbors came knocking to complain.)_

_This went on and amped up until you exploded cum like a Nerf Super Soaker, shooting it all over the nice, clean sheets and almost putting out one of the candles on the nightstand. I laughed a bit more openly then, even as you sagged pitifully to your belly and about went to total liquid. We retired Dildo Peggins for the night (as we named the strap-on in keeping with my habit of naming sex toys), and just relaxed a while, talking. You were sleepy, indolent, and serene, just lying there on your front beside me, fuzzing out every so often as I stroked your hair. Smacking your prostate with Dildo Peggins of Peg-Your-End supposedly gave you the single most mind-blowing orgasm you’d experienced in all your life with all of its manifold sexcapades. Was I proud? Oh, yes._

_We both fell asleep, you on your stomach, me on my side curled around you, and I was so dead to the world that I didn’t even stir when you got up to head to the bathroom._

_So when I heard the sound of you hollering from down below, followed by the pounding of your feet as you bolted out of the bathroom, it took me a second to figure out that A, the building wasn’t on fire, B, you weren’t attacked by some demon spawned from a portal to hell in the bowl of your toilet, and C, that Wally had apparently had his (freaking hysterical) revenge… at long, long last._

_I jumped out of bed in my birthday suit and leaned over the railing, watching as you went running across the floor of the main level._

“ _Wally, she violated meeeeee… I didn’t do nothin’, ahhhh…” you squealed as you skidded in your boxers over to the closet by the front door._

“ _Dick, what the heck?” I said, waving my hands around._

“ _My toilet is flooding,” you cried. “Arty, MY TOILET IS FLOODING. From the back!” You looked up at me woefully, also gesturing. “Apparently, Wally’s so mad you took my butt virginity instead of him that he’s FINALLY TAKEN HIS RAGE OUT ON MY TOILET!”_

_I just about died laughing, leaving you to shut off the water to the toilet tank while I got dressed, and then I helped you sop up the wet floor as both of us about giggled ourselves to pieces._

_It’s hard not to believe that malfunctioning toilet wasn’t a sign in the form of an epic prank from Wally, indicating that, wherever he was, he was able to have a sense of humor about where you and I found ourselves. Considering how often you joked about him screwing with your plumbing in response to us knocking boots, and then the timing of the actual toilet going haywire — there’s really no question, is there? And it seemed like something he would do — indicate his goodwill regarding our relationship status by way of a relevant joke. :P_

_Whether that was, in fact, a sign from the heavens that Wally didn’t sit on any hard feelings in the hereafter, I can say with confidence that it was then we finally, between the both of us, quit worrying about how he would feel, what he would think, and whether us being a Thing was right or wrong. Instead, we just remembered our loved one together, with warmth and fondness and shared feeling, and without the guilt of the months preceding. And went all in on you and me. No more hesitations, no more qualms, no more fears._

_Honestly? God freaking BLESS Wally, or bless that failed toilet._

_Or bless Dildo Peggins while we’re at it._

_Or hell, bless all three, because maybe it was a conspiracy to get us to quit angsting over things that simply didn’t need angsted over._

_And now I’ve completed that little recap of our Sexy Fun Time and Wally’s Aseptic Revenge, into the Dybbuk box this letter goes. :P_

_More to come, as usual._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  



	12. 12-25-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I POSTED THE WRONG VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER -- THE UNEDITED ONE -- WHICH I REALIZED AT WORK AND HAD TO MANUALLY EDIT ON MY PHONE. *HEAD... DESK* -_-;
> 
> It's what I get for posting before I've effectively caffeinated. D: 
> 
> So sorry all... Cleaned up and okay as of 12:05pm EST. XD
> 
> Much love... Again, so sorry. Beginning note transitioned to end note. <3

_December 25, 2018_

_Artemis_

Unable to suppress a spontaneously crazy-stupid-soaring happy smile, I stepped out of the shower, the steam from the hot water tranquilizing my senses into a placid sleepiness. I wrapped up in a towel and went through the Zen motions of my usual skincare routine and brushing my teeth. I paused a moment in front of the mirror tacked to the back of the bathroom door. 

I studied my profile, looking my figure up and down, slim and unimposing under the white towel. I opened the linen, exposing my body to the mirror. Well, no bump yet — at least, not a noticeable one. At worst, my gut looked a bit like it held an intumescent baby of my mom’s Christmas pancakes (which, granted, it did, and plenty of them.) I ran a hand over my abdominals, charting the shape of my middle. The most noticeable change thus far was in my sore, unhappy breasts — they had come a long way in a short time from the little teacups they were, now on the cusp of looking damn good in a push-up bra or cami (hooray!)

I considered whether this up-and-coming would be a boy or a girl, what color eyes it would have, whether it was healthy, which parent it would take after, when it would graduate high school, college. What its interests, favorite books and movies would be. 

Mostly… I experienced a rush of feelings similar to the one that had come over me after I’d embraced my mother the other night, and a smile played at my lips, bemused by my change of heart. It was still so _early,_ and this wasn’t exactly an agreeable intruder in my life initially — how was I so utterly welcoming of it so _suddenly,_ when just a few days before I was counting all of the ways my life was going to drastically change with a sinking sense of terror and dread? Still, there I was, enveloped in a sweet, balmy warmth, my hand on my abdomen, _connecting_ with this new, growing essence inside of me with nothing but total happiness.

When the moment of unexpected communion dissipated, I stretched my arms over my head, satisfied and indolent. Envying hibernating bears, I determined I was _past_ ready for bed, queasy and worn as I felt, in spite of the influx of profound hope and joy that had just unexpectedly flowed through me.

It had been an easygoing, _good_ holiday — Dick had shown up the morning before, Christmas Eve, with a bag of gifts and donuts for us. We spent a little while experimenting with pregnant couple’s yoga (guided by a video streamed from YouTube), then my mother made coffee. The rest of the afternoon we spent watching a marathon of holiday movies, until we headed to Wayne manor for Christmas Eve. I couldn’t help chuckling that Jason and Tim — once one-sided rivals — showed up at the mansion together, getting along as though they’d been best buds since the Bromantic Period. Apparently, Jason had set aside his differences and given a real shot at friendship with (lovable) Tim Drake a whirl, making for a companionable, relaxed atmosphere within the mansion straight off. Given that I hadn’t seen the doctor yet, we decided not to make annunciations of any kind (sorry, Tim and Jay…)

Christmas at Wayne manor, for its posh surroundings, was a fairly understated affair, and hosted a little lineup of mellow traditions — Alfred’s “stone soup” (essentially a really thick soup that had just about everything in it except the freaking sink that he’d invented off the cuff one year they were snowed in at the manor when Bruce was still a kid), mulled wine for the boys and a little break in tradition for me in the form of non-alcoholic cranberry wassail (deadly — Alfred is a _wizard)_ , and a gift exchange. It was fun, watching what the Bat fam provided each other in the way of presents, and exchanged a handful of our own.

We left the manor loaded up with gifts from the Wayne household, and spent the night at my mother’s, jammed together like a humanoid PB&J in my twin bed. In the morning, we dove into the remaining gifts and spent the rest of the day lazing. It was the best Christmas I’d had in _years._

In the middle of _The Thing_ late that evening _,_ Dick’s team only cell went off.

“Okay, that’s Babs — now’s our chance,” he said, leaping to his feet. “Sorry to cut out on you like this, but you know what they say —”

“Crime never takes a holiday?” I said.

He laughed. “Those criminals. Such Scrooges. I’d better get a move on, we’ve got a small window here at best to take a crack at getting the tie out of our esteemed Sabu.” He bent down and dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Please do,” I replied. A strange feeling settled on me. “…Be careful out there.”

“Who, me?” He chuckled. “Never.”

And once again, he was out the door. Tired, I hugged and kissed my mom good night, a new habit I was developing, and headed to the shower.

Once finished after scoping my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I opened the door to the bedroom I had once shared with Jade, closed it behind me, flicked on the light, and damn near leapt through the ceiling with a startled yelp. My back struck the surface of the door, my heart bouncing wildly into my throat, my chest leaping with my startled breath. 

“Shhh.”

My father leaned against the wall by the window, his posture relaxed, his arms folded easily across his burly chest, one ankle crossed over the other. 

Unthinking, my thundering heart screaming in my ears, I adopted a stance prepped for defense or offense, depending on what his next move would be. I just _prayed_ the towel would stay up.

This was hardly the first time my father had just shown up at random, entirely uninvited and unwanted in this exact same room — but it _had_ been a long time since his last drop-in, long enough that I had been quiescently lulled into a false sense of security. 

“ _Dad —”_ I whispered sharply through the bellowing adrenaline, “what the _hell_ are you doing here?”

“Can’t I drop in and say hi and Merry Christmas, baby girl?” he said in his sneering, spurious growl. “How about a hug for your old man?”

I thrust a hand at the window. “Get out.”

“Or what, sweetheart?” he said, straightening and squaring his impressive shoulders. 

Every muscle went ready, a wholly knee-jerk response, as I swiftly assumed a Muay Thai stance, feet shoulder width apart, elbows drawn in. He paused, and remained where he was, staring at me scornfully, looking me up and down, likely assessing my form. I tensed, spectacularly uncomfortable. Much as this wasn’t his first unannounced visit, this also wasn’t the first time he’d just popped in while I wasn’t fully clothed. It wasn’t out of any _perverted_ tendencies — to my knowledge, my father has never acquired an appetite for incest or underage, or even for non-con — but rather to disturb me as much as possible, throw me even more off my guard. 

“Take one more step and educate yourself on that,” I threatened, meaning it, my determination only amplified by the knowledge of the entirely defenseless party I carried, and that my wheelchair-bound mother was in the living room.

“Come off it, baby girl,” he jeered. “We both know you’re not in a state to back that up.”

I frowned, and inclined my head. 

“Got the news through the grapevine,” he said. 

My heart fell even as my arms went lax. 

“In the family way, huh?” he continued. “And with some _Wayne_ beneficiary’s brat. Well, congratulations, kiddo, you’ve graduated from working for your living to spreading your legs for it. And you look down on me for _my_ line of work.” He paused. “Still, guess there are worse fish you could have netted — that dickless sardine from that po’dunk Missouri one-horse town, for one.”

My heart slammed against my ribs and I lost whatever vestige of cool I’d retained until then. “You like your teeth where they are, Dad? Then you shut the _fuck_ up about Wally,” I said, my voice starting to shake. “You don’t even _speak_ his name.” I gesticulated at the window. “ _Get out._ Now. I mean it.”

“Why don’t you ask again why I’m here first?”

“Because I actually don’t care,” I snapped. “Leave.”

He grunted. “Going to have your sugar daddy call in one of Foster Pops’ fancy private helicopters to sweep you away to safety?”

My team cell was on the dresser. I moved, about to dive for it. I blew the whistle, and the League would have every goddamn authority from there to Timbuktu so far up Dad’s ass so fast he’d need a Fleet’s enema administered at Mach five to get them out again. And if he attacked me or tried to go after my mother — well, family way or not, I could still fight. And I _would._ My weapons rested feet away in my closet, sharpened, primed, and ready.

Unfortunately, the spur of the moment plan _really_ didn’t work — Dad streaked across the bedroom floor, and after a handful of blocks and feints, had me pressed against the wall with his hand clapped over my mouth, his arm across my chest. Inwardly, I cursed in emasculated rage — I hadn’t even retaliated, I’d merely shifted to guard my abdomen, all on instinct. That my father didn’t strike or _hurt_ me wasn’t enough to keep the sudden terror from freezing me in place with my back to the wall, Sportsmaster’s beefy hand clamped hot across my face. The towel was only held in place by the flat of his arm. 

“Ah-ah-ah,” he hissed. “Try calling for your little choir group and I’ll put my mace through that fat-ass gut of yours and a bullet through your mother’s skull.” 

“Artemis?”

My mom’s voice, calling from down the hall. 

Dad held up one finger over where his mouth would have been behind his mask, and lowered his hand from my face. 

“Yeah,” I said, quelling the tremble in my voice, my heart hammering in my throat, the blood rushing in sickening spurts through my limbs. This was painfully, turbulently unfamiliar — this feeling of overpowering, inward-turned protective instinct and the pathetic compliance that came with it. Even as my spirit rallied, my body locked up, tightening into a state of utter, rabbit-like stillness, screamingly aware that there was an enormous risk that hung between my father and me.

“I heard a thump, are you all right?” Mom queried through the door. Brucely suddenly barked, a series of sharp, rapidly issued _yips_. She shushed him. 

“I’m fine — I just — I just dropped something,” I replied. “Sorry.”

I didn’t hear what she said in response, as Dad moved his covered mouth to my ear, and whispered, “Good girl. Now listen — I’m just here for info, sweetheart, that’s it. So it seems there’s an audio file floating around out there implicating the venerated Secretary General Luthor in a fistful of reprehensible activities. It went bye-bye a couple of weeks ago, and it’s my job to make sure it _stays_ bye-bye. Now, I have it on good authority that your little team’s been tasked with undoing that handy erasure and moving in on the party responsible for making it go _poof._ Meaning, my job is to keep that from happening. I assumed _you_ were part of the recon team, but imagine my surprise when I came around looking to head you off the other night to find you at home, cozied up with Mommy and that entitled yuppie Wayne fuckhead — and knocked up, to boot. Still. I’m guessing your little pals talk over ice cream or some shit. Who’s been sent after the Calculator, girl, and when are they being deployed?”

I gritted my teeth, and laddered my spine against the wall, anchoring myself. How the _hell_ did any of us fail to notice him the last time he came creeping? I shook my head.

“ _Talk,”_ Dad commanded.

“Fuck if I know,” I snarled, yanking my face away from his, “I’m on leave. Knocked up, remember?”

“Didn’t stop your sister,” he said, smirking.

“Well, it’s stopping _me_ ,” I hissed.

“Yeah. Not sure I believe that, baby girl.”

“This is _more_ than enough to keep me completely out of the game, Dad. And honestly, you’re looking at _why._ ”

“Of course it is,” he scoffed. “You heroic types always seem to come wired for sentimentality.”

Abruptly, he backed off. As he stepped away, I caught the towel and planted my feet, _refusing_ to show him how shaken and riled I was, concentrating my breathing. Sweat tickled my skin as it trailed down my back. A gorge formed in my throat, funneling upward, my gut paddling in wild circles. 

“Huh. Finally got a pair of tits under that towel,” Dad said with a cruel amusement — undeniably attempting to hit all my sore spots in one go, since I wasn’t forking over what he wanted.

 _Two can play this game, assbag,_ I thought, pulling myself together with a massive effort.

“Luthor must be offering some pretty serious cash if you’re willing to sell out to him,” I said. “Didn’t you call him an impotent weasel who couldn’t get his cock wet if he were swimming in pussy not too long ago?” 

“Something to that effect,” Dad said, a glimmer of amusement sparking in his brown eyes. “But there’s more besides the money in _this_ one, baby girl. Don’t you want me to spoil the grandkids? Help you raise them?”

My teeth and fists clenched. “Dad —”

His head flicked to the side, his attention drawn to something unseen — likely an earpiece, a message coming to him through a comm system.

“Sorry, kiddo, I don’t have time to bond if you’re not going to ante up,” he said. “Guess I’ll just have to default to other sources. Remember. Shhh, or…” He mimicked firing a gun, and his arms, easily bigger than my thighs, flexed under the fitted material of his thermal uniform.

And with that, he turned and was out the window before I could even breathe a word in response. 

Numb, sweating, shivering, my heart palpitating against my ribs, I made my shaking way over to my bed, and sank down on its surface. I drew the towel more tightly around my body.

 _Breathe, Artemis, six-eight-seven, he’s gone…_

I stared blankly at the open window, shivering in the cold air that entered through it, wondering why I would even bother shutting the thing — there wasn’t a lock in the entire goddamn universe that could keep my father out. _Invading_ was his territory, _making his way in_ his established proficiency, _violating_ his expertise. Slip through the cracks unseen, schmaltz his way inside, bust on in guns a-blazin’ — he was suited perfectly to any of the above. I could very well wake up one night from a deep sleep to discover him hunched over me with a garrote or knife to my throat. And in this _infuriatingly_ compromised position, I’d be borderline powerless to stop him. I could fight, sure — but I knew now that every instinct would riot against going in full-throttle, risking myself and by proxy my baby. 

I got up, slammed the window shut, and locked it (just to make myself feel better on the surface.) I abruptly burst into tears when I caught the sound of the television from the living room, where my mother, debilitated and unsuspecting, sat in her wheelchair, innocently working on her little Sudoku puzzles and watching her TV. A fist clenched my heart as I thought with vengeful fury and anguish on how _endangered_ she was, how nearly in harm’s way she’d been. Would my father _ever_ stop hurting her, endangering her? Could I protect her if he came back? And now, was he moving after Dick and Barbara? My heart freed itself from the unseen fist, pounding hotly, blazing in my chest — and then, I _really_ started to cry. I grabbed my phone and typed out a text to Dick on the team cell with quivering fingers. Dad and his threats could go to hell. 

_Keep an eye out, heard through the grapevine you might have bogeys inbound._

_Noted. What manner of bogey,_ Dick sent back within a moment.

 _The Sportsmaster manner of bogey,_ I replied. 

_Okay. Appreciate it, Tigress,_ he responded.

I held my breath, even as tears poured over my cheeks. I _had_ to calm down — I _had_ to come down off this. Dad didn’t get to win.

I raised the alarm regarding my father to the League, sharing every piece of info I'd just gotten from Sportsmaster's own mouth (fuck you, Dad), and then busied myself just focusing with intense precision on stupid, mundane stuff like combing my damp hair, putting on my pajamas, straightening up my room, changing my sheets, sipping at water to stave off the perpetual nausea. No good — I wound up vomiting, the illness exacerbated by my skyrocketed nerves. 

Later, I rested on my bed, occasionally rubbing at my tender belly, fretting over the brief skirmish with my father and whether even the minimal violent contact was enough to prove harmful. Was the _stress_ of the whole thing enough? I’d been cramping since before the week of sugar pills, so the discomfort in my abdomen wasn’t strange or out of place, and according to everything I’d read, it was perfectly normal, expected, even, to have stomach pain in early pregnancy (stretching ligaments and the like.) 

_Still._ I worried. And not just for my baby, or my mother, or even for myself -- but for Dick and Barbara, too.

Antsy, distressed, rattled, I got up, and fortified my windows, for whatever good it would do. I shifted a handful of selected weapons from my closet to my nightstand — a bo staff and two small but deadly efficient blades. Then I called Brucely into my room, and sat on the floor with him on my lap, fighting to break the surface of the tossing sea that jealously held me under. Brucely was every bit as much a placebo as the fortified windows — the only risk an intruder stood with him was that the bastard might get licked to death. _Well,_ I thought mirthlessly, _maybe I’ll finally see that mythical soft side of my father, in that case._

Did I tell Dick — _really_ tell him about what happened, beyond the vaguely delivered facts that Dad was in Gotham, undeniably hired by Luthor? Did I leave him out of this, not add to his already overloaded, stressful plate, possibly endanger him further by distracting him? Did I tell Mom? I mean… Dad had threatened me, but it felt pretty vacuous by _his_ standards — he'd come looking for information, and, properly stonewalled, moved on to seek it elsewhere. If he’d cared so much, he’d have delivered some _real_ threats, and made good on them _before_ diving back out into the night. And on a half-naked, pregnant woman a third his size, he could realize those threats with terrifying efficiency — of that I had _no_ doubt. I could go toe to toe with him on a good day, sure… however, this was _not_ one of those days, and wouldn’t be any time soon. At worst, he seemed thoroughly disgusted that I was pregnant with the child of some entitled yuppie fuckhead, but didn’t seem to be gunning toward active retribution…

…Yet, anyway.

 _Give it time, Arty,_ I thought darkly, a tremble restarting in my hands. 

Or was he out to deal with Kuttler, confronting Dick right then, unwittingly about to enact that same retribution?

I about jumped through the roof when my phone buzzed. 

A text, from Dick.

_Checking in. Been a real rough night. How ya feelin, Tiger?_

I realized that over an hour had passed since I last messaged him, time simultaneously a blink and a lifetime. I breathed a sigh of relief.

 _He's okay,_ I thought, my heart slowing in my chest, _he's okay._

 _Sportsmaster make an appearance?_ I texted, switching to the team cell. 

_Not sure yet,_ he replied. _Monster Kills by way of headshots aren’t really his MO. Not his common one, anyway. But I wouldn’t put it past him. He or Deathstroke are definite possibilities. Looking into it tomorrow. Getting patched up right now, took a solid beating before the end. Still need to be debriefed._

I paused, my thumb hovering over the touchscreen. _Monster Kills by way of headshots…?_

Oh, God. I knew _very_ well what that meant — they’d lost Kuttler, probably to a sniper, one hired to shut him up before he implicated Luthor in the global (potentially intergalactic) crime spree we were investigating with the League. And all too likely, the sniper (uh, Sportsmaster, anyone?) sought to end Dick and Babs for the same purpose. My father was not only a _highly_ viable candidate for that job — and yes, he _did_ occasionally favor guns to get a job done quick -- he had fucking _revealed_ that it was his job to keep the erasure of incriminating material in place. _By Luthor._ His sudden departure clinched it. He didn't leave to seek info elsewhere at all -- he was deployed to get rid of Kuttler, the holder of precarious information... And Dick and Barbara, as well.

Dick not only had a right as the father of my child and his role in my life to know the specifics of what had happened earlier — he _needed_ to know, and _now_.

Screw texting. 

I called him.

“Hey,” he said upon answering. “You okay?”

His voice was dissolute and thin, his tone exhausted and harrowed. I slackened, aching at the sound. It doesn’t matter how many people you see blown away by ne’er-do-wells that put the asses in assassins on the job — you never get used to it. And Dick, nothing shy of a god tier real-life cinnamon roll, took every death to heart, even those of his enemies.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Are you?”

“I’m okay,” he answered. “Just shaken up.” He heaved a sigh. “Should have checked the goddamn roofs one more time. Kuttler didn’t have to die.”

“Even if you had, I doubt you’d have seen whoever it was,” I reminded him gently. “If the Shadows were involved, you’re just lucky you got out of the way in time.”

“I guess,” he said heavily. 

“Listen,” I said. “I knew Sportsmaster’s location and blew the whistle on him because he showed up earlier. Unannounced, in my room, trying to get info from me.”

Silence.

And then — 

“What?”

Dick’s voice was a low, deep growl — _dangerous_ sounding _._ I had _never_ heard that tone from him before. 

“Yeah,” I said. “And it's not like it’s the first time he’s done this. But look, Nightwing — he knows about _everything._ And that you’re onto him.”

There was quiet.

“…Need some company?” he asked after a moment, his voice gone from flat-out _scary_ to completely gentle.

I smiled as more tears, relieved ones this time, sprang into my eyes at the soothing, warming sound of that gentle tone.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I’d love some.”

*******

I rested atop Dick’s bare chest a little while later, avoiding the positively magnificent bruise that mottled his left pectoral. I studied it, all of its myriad, inkblot colors flowering lividly within a ring of angry redness, and nestled closer to him, assuring myself that he was alive, that he was okay. 

I sighed. I had barely gotten his story out of him after I regaled him with my own disconcerting tale (he insisted that I go first.) He had leapt to his feet, made for the window, and about jumped back out into the night to go track down Sportsmaster, injuries be damned. 

I’d bodily dragged him away from the windowsill, only winning at deterring his bedlamite rage mission by playing the “Woe Is Me, I Am Pregnant With Your Baby” card. 

Expressing my concern for his injuries didn’t stop him, and neither did remonstrating that Oliver and Dinah were out scouring the city for him as we spoke, but my frustration at my unaccustomed impotence and the fear I felt for my mother at last effectively removed his attention from playing Hide and Go Seek with Sportsmaster. And although I desperately wanted to hear about what the hell _happened_ — there were so many visible cuts and marks on his severely battered form — he seemed too concerned with me to pay them any mind, so I didn’t force him. He sat tirelessly with me while I talked myself out, until I was a little less fit for a lifetime prescription of Lorazepam.

Then, it was his turn. His own night had been dark and full of terrors, as the quote went.

They’d come in on Kuttler, who not only laid claim to plenty of hacking aptitude — but a surprising inventive prowess, too. Within moments of the initial confrontation, he donned some weird suit (generated, according to Dick’s account, by a powered vest he wore over his shirt), and comfortably dove right into it with Dick and Babs both. It was an intense, bloody tussle. With the aid of this Ironman-inspired suit, Kuttler managed to knock Barbara out of the twentieth-story window (she’d come to her own rescue by way of her handy, life-saving grappling hook, and was working to make her way back into the fray), and then gotten Dick pinned beneath him, strangling him with the heavy-powered metal gauntlet attached to the mechanical exoskeleton. It explained all of the busted capillaries in his face, I thought as I listened. Dick said he was making his peace with God right about then, as he lay there getting choked out with a giant wannabe powered-by-Jarvis glove on the hand of someone he mistakenly thought going on all prior evidence was a two-bit criminal and former overweight basement dweller (if a brainy one.) 

However… In one blink, a shot passed through Kuttler’s head, sheared Dick’s hair (I could see the shorn length, just by his ear), and stuck in the floor. He’d only just gotten Kuttler’s body hurled away from him when the first shot was followed by another that struck Dick’s chest, right over his heart, lodging in the armored chestpiece. All the wind knocked out of him, he only dove out of the way of the bullets that came after by the grace of pure, dumb luck. Barbara miraculously escaped all lines of fire before rejoining Dick.

“I have one _seriously_ put-upon guardian angel,” Dick sighed. “You know, I really hope God gives her good benefits. And a holiday bonus. And a raise for extending her protective reach to Barbara.” He rubbed at his forehead. “It was just a _terrible_ night all around.” He held me closer. “Arty, are you _sure_ you don’t want to go to the ER or anything? Just to be safe?”

I nodded. “I’m fine, Dick, just shaken like a Polaroid picture, as the kids used to say. We see the doctor the day after tomorrow — I doubt going to the ER will accomplish anything outside of racking up an exorbitant and totally unnecessary bill.”

“He didn’t hurt you?”

I shook my head. “No, just _really_ rattled my cage.” I sighed, and turned to my back, gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sure he planned it like that, though — you know, just scare the absolute crap out of me and totally pop my balloon as all the while he cackles maniacally and congratulates himself on a job well done.”

Dick looked over at me, and laid a palm on my belly, his touch warm through the thin material of my tank top. I gazed at him, calmed at once, somehow consoled by the feeling of his hand there.

“Look, Artemis,” he said, “if you ever feel like you and your mom aren’t safe here, you’re _more_ than welcome to crash at my place or the manor for as long as you want or need. Both of you.”

“Dick, I can handle my dad,” I assured him. 

“I’m not saying you can’t,” he told me. “You just shouldn’t _have_ to. I mean, by all rights, you shouldn’t even be chased out of your own home. If it comes to that, though, just know you _always_ have somewhere to run. And if he tries coming after you —” Here, his voice took on the same dangerous note from before, “he’d just damn well better hope my overworked guardian angel decides to bestow her protection on him in a moment of Christian charity or a bid for a raise from the Almighty.”

I smiled. “Well. You know I’d normally bristle at the implications of those words — but right now? …I really, _really_ appreciate it, Dick.”

He smiled back, and stroked my hair. 

“God, I hate this,” I said with an aggravated sigh.

“Which part?”

“All of it. Not feeling able to protect myself or my mom, having to actually be _afraid_ of that jerk-off on some level,” I told him. “I’m _not_ used to this. And I guarantee my dad _knows_ that and will keep coming back from this point on just to fuck with me.”

Dick clasped my face, and gave me a fervent look. “Listen, Artemis. I want you to know this now — you do _not_ need to worry about him, okay? I mean that. He’s not going to get _anywhere_ near you. Not to sound like a totally patronizing dudebro or shortchange your own capabilities or anything, but if he tries coming within seventy miles of you, he’s going to have to deal with _me_ first.”

“Be careful, I’m sure he’d _love_ to accept that challenge if he heard it,” I said wryly. 

“Yeah? Bring it, asshole,” Dick said forcefully. 

It occurred to me, as the echoes of those words rescinded, that if there was anyone I trusted to hold his own against my father, it was the man lying next to me, stretched easily on his back, the inspiring angles of his powerful body accented by the amber lamplight. Dick was a versatile, intricately skilled fighter — fast, unrelenting, and dauntless. It didn't hurt that he was trained by the undisputed best in the world (and universe, so far.) And he was _smart —_ remarkably instinctive, reading his opponents with an often unsettling clairvoyance. I’d seen the Parkour stuff fail more times than I could count against giants like my father (frequently comically, in ways that inspired secondhand embarrassment), but Dick unfailingly used his speed and fleetness of foot effectively, drawing on his acrobatic skills to supplement his technique. 

And all that aside? The guy could take a _hell_ of a beating and just keep on fighting. My dad always banked on his brute strength and sheer barbarism to undo his opponents if his own technique turned up lacking, and honestly, he’d grown clunky and inefficient as he’d aged. Dick would run in circles around him and slap his ass the entire while. ( _God,_ that would be beautiful to see.)

“Anyway,” he was saying, “I don’t want you to worry about your father, okay? You’ve worried about him enough at this point. More than enough. All I want you worrying about from here on is what color you want to paint the baby’s room or whether you’d rather work for Wayne Enterprises or Drake Industries after you graduate in May. Your dad’s white noise that _I’ll_ deal with if it ever gets too loud. I’ve got your back, a hundred percent, always.”

“I know,” I said, nearly coming to tears (yet again) like a hopeless simp, smiling stupidly in replete gratitude, not caring about how _corny_ everything sounded. “Dick, you always have.”

He smiled in return, and ran a hand over my hair. “Always will, babe. And remember — it’ll be your testimony that helps put Sportsmaster away for good. When the time comes.” He thumbed my cheek. “And it will. I’ll see to it.” 

Heartened, I leaned over, for a third time in as many days experiencing a powerful rush of warmth, this time for Dick. My _boyfriend._ The concept of it was novel, positively _delicious._ I kissed him, his lips hot and soft under mine. 

“It’ll be okay,” he said, wrapping both arms around me, drawing me closer to him. I inhaled the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne.

“Maybe it will this time, stud,” I said warmly, burrowing contentedly into his neck, aware that opening up to him was, in its own, small way, a victory against my father. “Like you said, I have you, don’t I?”

“Always.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love and resounding thanks to The_Pop_Culturist (welcome aboard, mate! AND AMAZING JOB *hoists a tankard*) and daisymagick for the awesome beta work and brainstorming on this. <3 Many thanks also to Mangaluva for helping shape a good deal of this chapter through our chats (AND--she owns god tier cinnamon roll, potentially the best term coined since the days of Billy Shakes. Hope you don't mind I totally ripped off your line, Senpai... :D)
> 
> MUCH LOVE, ALL! <3 Hope y'all enjoyed... :D <3 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3


	13. 11-4-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's poppin', y'all...!! ^_^ <3 
> 
> Have some fluff/cheese! :-) Bit of a light-hearted chaser to the previous chapter... :D <3
> 
> All my love and thanks to The_Pop_Culturist and daisymagick... I'd be lost without you guys, seriously. <3 TPC, thanks for letting gank your lines. :D You're so good! <3 ^_^
> 
> Much love and happy reading, folks! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_November 4, 2019_

  
  


_Dick,_

  
  


_Mwa ha ha ha ha (maniacal laughter!) — get ready for some majorly invasive dental work, because these little recaps are going to be TOOTH-ROTTING SWEET… But totally some favorites of mine. These are, after all, very happy ones for both of us. You were ALL smiles. (So was I, so was I.)_

_Oh! Did I accomplish a pun with recaps and the reference to tooth-rot?? Okay, so it would be kind of a gross pun… but it WAS a pun, right??_

_Before I can go down THAT rabbit hole — we got back from our Savannah vacay, which, as I’ve said already, was a total blast (I’m pretty sure I was like, fifteen pounds heavier from all the beignets I ate while there), and then we decided to make the requisite annunciations before one day I just showed up at the Watchtower with a baby like, “I made this! WITH DICK!” (As we titter. Sorry. I’ve always tried to limit my dick jokes, but… you never seemed to mind.) Anyway, you popped off with the (actually pretty great) idea to drop the baby bomb on the team._

_As you came to learn, M’gann and Zatanna already knew (“Oops… Spoilers!” as Bart loves to say), having provided direly needed ears to vent at and shoulders to weep rivers on when I got the unholy purple plus sign. So we all got together to plot out some exceptionally silly way to break the news — you know, in case of flames from anyone. You remained optimistic, but I held onto my old, embittered cynicism, preparing for and expecting the worst. I wanted to believe our friends would be happy for us, but I also had to anticipate that the guys would abide by the hard and fast rules of the legendary Bro Code — and that the girls would abide by the female version of the same for Babs’ sake._

… _If the guys’ is called the Bro Code, would the girls’ be the Ho Code? (Philosoraptor!)_

_Let’s move on._

_So, the opportunity would present itself best on none other than February the fourteenth, you maintained, and what better way to celebrate Singles’ Awareness Day than with a good old-fashioned baby announcement?_

“ _Sure, rub singlehood in everyone’s faces, Dick,” I scoffed, with one of my patented Artemis eyerolls (your term, not mine. Turd.) I paused, and sat up from where I leaned against Zatanna’s arm on the couch in your apartment. “Then again, this WAS an oopsie — maybe it’ll actually reinforce the benefits of being single.”_

_You just sputtered._

_We asked what manner of goofy announcement you had in mind, and you mentioned the fact that M’gann STILL had the team craft individualized, decorated boxes and hand out Valentines to one another every year._

_(It’s one of those things that we love and hate about M’gann. I mean, how CUTE is that? But also kind of obnoxious — in the early years, I used to just dumpster dive for a shoebox and write my name on it with a Sharpie marker. The year after Wally passed, though, I sat down with Lian and we created a fairly reasonable facsimile of the Catbus from My Neighbor Totoro. I got a lot of very nice cards that year. The year following — ah, 2018, the year that would see us doing the horizontal mambo and conceiving a freaking infant — you and I goofed around and themed our boxes around Sandor and Sansa, in honor of our beloved San-San ship that we both got VERY passionate about. I started hating Valentine’s Day a lot less from that point, and even more after the one the next year — realizing that I had a lot of really awesome friends in my corner. Yes, Dickie, you included.)_

_So you told us that you planned on printing off a bunch of cards alongside each individual Valentine, featuring everybody’s most cherished painter, the star of The Joy of Painting, renderer of happy little clouds and happy little trees — yep, none other than Bob Ross, smiling in his reefered out, blissful way, his brush poised over his canvas, a screaming baby Photoshopped onto its surface._

“ _As for the caption,” you said, “it’ll be ‘We don’t make mistakes, we have happy accidents.’”_

_Zatanna and M’gann and I just fell all over each other laughing. It was too good to pass up._

“ _How about we just hand out that?” I asked. “We can add in like super tiny print, ‘Oh, yeah, and Happy Singles’ Awareness Day.’”_

“ _You, my lady, are cruel,” Zatanna giggled._

_I was buzzing with nerves when Valentine’s Day (freaking finally) rolled around — I was four months (sixteen weeks and three days, to be precise) gone by then, and although that little rounding belly was still easy enough to hide, it was becoming more and more obvious depending on which shirt I wore. I blamed my leave of absence on caring for my mom and focusing on school hitherto — not exactly lies. I couldn’t Zeta, so rather than at the more traditional location of the Watchtower, we held the little team Valentine’s party at the manor, which made Alfred all too happy. Jason came, which made YOU… uh, and Tim, cough cough… all too happy, too._

_My hands SHOOK as I dropped each customized card into our friends’ boxes. I was too freaked out to bother taking any notice of how everyone decorated their little receptacles (dude, we’re in our twenties, I can’t believe we still do this — AND STILL HAVE SO MUCH FUN WITH IT. Guess we’re all still kids at heart, huh?) I sat by you in nervous anticipation while everybody pulled out their cards, taking about four goddamn centuries to get to ours. You, for your part, were strictly excited — at the boiling point, in fact, like a kid with so much energy you didn’t quite know what to do with it all._

_Kaldur was the first to take a look at our card, and I chewed my lip to shreds watching him read it. His brow furrowed, and he looked over at you and me, and cocked his head. I wormed my lip and held my hands up like, “Well…” while you donned a big, exaggerated grin and bobbed around with an emphatic nod._

_There was a pause — and then he came over to us, and for the first time since I’d known him, KALDUR INSTIGATED A FUCKING HUG._

_He extended a hand to you, which you took, and then one to me, which I took, both of us giving him something of a “dur, wut?” expression. Then, he pulled us up, and… drew us both to him, giving us a very emotional squeeze that about popped the marrow out of our bones like they were tubes of toothpaste._

“ _So THIS is the truth behind your taking leave for a while,” he said. “Dick, Artemis, I would say I am surprised, but it would be a lie.”_

“ _Sorry, what do you mean?” you asked. “Reading poorly, Aqualad, please repeat your previous message.”_

_He drew back, and grinned. “Dick, I know you both, you are two of my closest friends, I am your team leader. I can read your cues.”_

“ _Uh — so you knew about the bun in the oven, or that he and I were playing flesh puppets?” I asked inelegantly._

 _Kaldur burst out laughing — that warm, baritone blurble that we all loved. Just like Bruce’s laughter — rare, but always contagious._

“ _I knew that you CARED for each other,” he explained, “and possibly more than either of you were letting onto the rest of us. We have all been a little suspicious there was something transpiring between the two of you. The bun in the oven, however, I cannot say any of us anticipated.”_

_You smiled, wrapped an arm around my waist, and gave me a squeeze. “Keep it down, Kaldur, we don’t want Wally to hear…”_

_I laughed. “Dick seems to think Wally’s going to destroy his plumbing if he ever finds out about us from where he is.”_

_Again, Kaldur laughed._

“ _So, tell me, Artemis,” he said, effervescent with his own excitement, “how are you feeling? How far along are you? When are you due? When will you know the gender, and do you PLAN on knowing the gender? Do you plan on returning to the team once you have given birth and had time to recover?”_

“ _Give me a chance to answer, there, boss,” I said, laughing. “I mean — jeez, I’ve never seen you so…” I paused, then said, “Bubbly.”_

“ _Punderbar!” you exclaimed._

“ _Wow — you have like, no class, there, Dick. Uh… well, Kaldur, I feel like hammered shit, actually, but… this boy here makes some fantastic ginger tea that helps keep me from barking at the ants.” Kaldur chuckled, and nodded. “I’m four months along — and uh… Okay, I know, I know… I’m sorry for taking so long to come out with it.” I fretted at a lock of hair. “We just… you know, we just wanted to wait for the right time to kind of drop this on everyone.”_

“ _I understand,” said Kaldur. “It is big news, it stands to be done justice.”_

_I smiled. “As for everything else… Due date is the end of July, we DO plan on learning the gender, which we’ll get in about a month, and HELL YES I plan on returning to duty. My availability might not be what it used to, but I definitely plan on coming back.”_

“ _Wonderful,” Kaldur said. “Just wonderful, Artemis. Now, Father, you tell me — how are YOU faring with this news?”_

 _You grinned, and were about to reply, when a loud, resounding squeal and shout echoed from the other side of the great room in the manor._

“ _Oh, my GOD, Dickie, Arty — you guys are having a BABY?!” Cassie squeaked, ever tactful and reserved (ha, ha), as she came zooming over to suffocate me in the world’s most crushing hug ever, jouncing me as she bounced around._

“ _Uh — honey — I can’t breathe —” I gagged as I smacked playfully at her arm. She giggled and backed off, and immediately after, I was set upon by Gar, while Jaime and Bart (the Package Deal) assaulted us both with hugs and questions._

“ _How long has THIS been going on?” Gar asked, elated, as M’gann chuckled and made her way over._

“ _Oh, Gar, it was a HUGE surprise,” I answered._

“ _Welp, that’s what my grandma Iris said, these things are always a surprise, never expected, always outta left field, ahhh, so crash!” Bart cheered, and then streaked around, causing my hair to blow into my face. I hadn’t even gotten the strings of my hair swiped out of my mouth when Bart abruptly reappeared and glomped me with enough force that I actually protested._

“ _Bart, you’ve got to take it easy with me, here, I’m FRAGILE —”_

_But, he was already off._

“ _I know you’re probably freaking out about Wally, like ‘Oh, no! What would Wally say! What would Wally do!” But I think he’s super excited, wherever he is — I mean, who better to take care of his best girl than his best pal?”_

“ _Oh, Christ, Bart,” I grumbled. TAKEN CARE OF was never a phrase I liked in conjunction with yours truly._

“ _Lay off, Chulo,” Jaime warmly rescued me. “So Artemis, you’re all enceinte — so exciting! What are the plans? Will you come back when you’ve had the baby?”_

“ _I plan on it,” I assured him, smiling, relieved that he’d cut into acknowledging the eight ton elephant in the room known as Wally. (Yes, Dickie, I didn’t always express it like you did, but I carried my share of Wally Guilt, too — prior to the exploding toilet.) “Again, though, like I told Kaldur, I might not have the same availability, but I’ll make it work. Plus, I’ve got this fetching devil to help me with that.”_

“ _You’d better, ese,” Jaime admonished you amicably. You promised him that you would._

_And then… Babs came over. If I said I didn’t totally tense up and prepare to take one of her astonishing left hooks to the face (which would promptly land my head somewhere in the wall behind me), I’d be lying out of both sides of my soon-to-be missing teeth._

_But she shocked me when she came up, unhesitating, all smiles… totally happy._

“ _Damn it, I should have known,” she said, laughing as she hugged you. “That Mystery Gal you asked my advice on back before Christmas — of COURSE it was Arty. What’s that they say about the most obvious answer occurring to you last of all?”_

“ _You’re not mad?” I asked as I accepted my hug._

“ _Maybe only mad you guys didn’t say anything sooner,” Babs told me. “Seriously, I’m SO happy for you. Are you excited?” She leaned toward me, and took my hands. “Or are you freaking out?”_

_I laughed. “A little of both, to be honest — it was a bit of a shock.”_

“ _I’ll bet! Dick, I’m borrowing her for a second, be right back. Come over here and tell me about it while I make you hydrate, Mama Bear.”_

“ _Good GOD,” I said, but I grinned, ready to accept all of the well wishes and caregiving gracefully._

 _Jason was ecstatic — he’s always had a soft spot for kids, much as you and Bruce both do, and joked that he doubted you’d let him babysit. He VISIBLY melted when you said there wasn’t a human being on earth you’d trust with children more. And believe me, stud — your trust has NOT been misplaced._

_Which… brings me to Conner._

_He wasn’t… unhappy, per se. But he was quiet, mostly, his smiles and congratulations seeming forced, and then, abruptly, he left the room. As I watched him leave, I sighed._

“ _And… cue the flames,” I said, every breath of wind at once taken out of my sails._

“ _I’ll go talk to him,” you said._

_I pretty much made the sign of the Cross over you as you followed Conner, and shook my head._

“ _Why do I have the feeling Conner’s going to rip his head off and crap down his neck?” I groused._

“ _Maybe he’ll surprise you, Artemis,” Tim offered from where he stood next to Jason (I know. The shock.)_

“ _Yeah,” I said skeptically. “He’ll surprise me — probably by crapping down his neck and THEN pissing on his corpse.”_

“ _You’re so elegant, Arty,” Zatanna giggled. “Seriously, I don’t think it will be anything of that nature — well, not quite, anyway. Maybe just an argument over loyalty to Wally or something, but I doubt Conner’s going to tear Dick’s head off and desecrate the carcass.”_

_I was on TENTERHOOKS waiting for you guys to come back in — I about fell into a puddle of liquefied relief when you reentered the room, side by side with Conner, both of you looking perfectly amicable, nary a hint of palpable tension between the two of you._

_You explained to me later that Conner admitted to feeling a little torn between happiness for us and a deep-seated loyalty to Wally, his friend. However, he also stressed to you, he WAS happy for us — we were his friends, too, after all._

“ _There’s more to it than that, though, Artemis,” you told me. “Turns out… he and M’gann… Well… They can’t have kids together.”_

“ _Oh, no,” I said, staring. “Wait — how do they know? Were they trying?”_

_You shook your head. “It’s not that they were trying — more just… talking hypotheticals, like marriage and a family in the future, and… they learned that the cloning process left Conner sterile.”_

_Dick — my heart FELL. I felt SO guilty, all in that moment. All that joy I’d been rubbing in M’gann’s face, never knowing what she was going through, what she was struggling with, what I was actually DOING to her. I had nothing to say — there WERE no words. I just shook my head, totally, totally crushed. Ever do something that you wish you could just reach out and snatch from the air before it actually sticks anywhere?_

“ _So… The whole thing with Wally… it’s more — HE would personally be loyal to Wally. But that wasn’t what drove him out of the room,” you sighed. “The announcement was just a total slap in the face. And it’s not like he wants to have kids yesterday or tomorrow or soon, even — but he would like to have kids with M’gann SOMEDAY, you know?”_

_I about barfed on my bare feet as the guilt swam sickeningly in my belly like a busy dolphin. “God, Dick, I’ve been so — happy,” I said, pressing my face into my hand, overwhelmed with compunction. “M’gann never even mentioned this to me. I don’t think I even gave her the chance to…”_

“ _Well, maybe she just didn’t want to share,” you said, laying a hand on mine, your tone soothing. “Not yet, anyway. I mean, the fact you ARE happy… Maybe she just didn’t want to interfere with that, or make you feel like she was encroaching on it, or trying to take it from you.”_

“ _Sounds like M’gann,” I sighed._

_You nodded. “She’s happy for you, babe.”_

“ _Us,” I corrected you with a smile._

_You smiled back. “Us. Listen…” Your smile vanished, devolving into a frown. “I don’t know if this was something I was supposed to share, so… Maybe keep it under your hat for now. Bottom line… Conner isn’t breathing fire or sitting on any Bro Code related hard feelings or anything. So you don’t need to worry about him, okay?”_

“ _I just really hope I haven’t made M’gann feel like she can’t talk to me,” I said miserably._

“ _Oh, Arty, I doubt that. I think she’ll bring it up to you when she’s ready, or feels it’s time.”_

_I feel compelled to mention here that eventually, and to my immense relief and inexpressible happiness, she did. There’s no need to get into the intimate details of that conversation, unless sometime you want me to — for now, I’m just saying you were right._

_So now our pals finally knew… It was time to (DUN-DUN!) conscribe the godparents. As it turned out, a MUCH harder job. We have a lot — like, a LOT a lot — of friends. When you’ve got too many pals and you’ve got to say, “oh, hello, choice paralysis…” Oh, the nightmare! Hashtag, First World Problems!_

_Seriously. What an enviable problem to have. Am I really complaining? Ha!_

_For the role of godmother, after I repeatedly died inside whittling the list down to the two most natural candidates that would have ended up placed in the Top Two anyway and as such I could have spared myself a lot of intrapersonal drama over, I wavered helplessly between M’gann and Zatanna. Ugh, I waffled without cease between the two women — both of whom, as you know, were indescribably important to me. I loved them fiercely and equally. And worse, each seemed just as qualified for the job as the other._

_Desperate, I was about to flip a coin and blame fate or the gods or the universe or whatever when the time came to give one of them the shaft, when you presented the idea that one be made an honorary aunt. I jumped ALL over that shit, and, happy to wash my hands of any decision-making, left it up to M’gann and Zatanna to decide who was going to be what. I trusted both in either slot._

_In the end, Zatanna took on the esteemed role of godmother, and M’gann the equally revered role of honorary aunt._

_As for the godfather…_

_This choice was a little easier, at least. Roy and Jason would be uncles to the kid already, and Tim not unlike an honorary uncle. And that was a role officially bequeathed to Conner, given his relationship with M’gann and all. Our other male teammates were a bit young to approach with the invitation, and while you had your fair share of close, well-loved civilian pals — Kaldur was your closest bro. He enthusiastically accepted the honor._

_And… bippity, boppity, boo. Zatanna and Kaldur became the godparents. Two magic-users — our baby’s fairy godparents. How many of us would have given our left nuts/tits to have had THAT little resource as kids? (I’m earnestly raising both hands and bouncing around like, “Pick me! Pick me!” as we speak.)_

_Anyway, as the saying goes… Friends are the family you choose, and in the words of a beloved author, “I don't care about whose DNA has recombined with whose. When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching — they are your family.” Both quotes have rung so profoundly true so many times throughout the years we’ve all known each other… and never so much as they have in recent months. We’re lucky, Dick. SO lucky. Not just to share in the joy of one another, but the unbelievable friendships that we apparently, at some point while merrymaking on Halloween, sacrificed whole litters of kittens (save Princess Peach) to Beelzebub for. I know it sounds a little syrupy and sappy and sentimental… but, whatever, I’ve been guilty of a lot of cheese and corn and mushiness lately. Can’t say if it’s hormones… or just REALLY recognizing (maybe a little belatedly) where the lots I’ve been cast HAVEN’T come up wanting._

_Well, either way — coming out of relationship jail was not only liberating (oh, pun!), but SUCH a relief, knowing that we wouldn’t need any fire extinguishers or sexy peeps in fire proximity gear kept at hand to douse angry flames, after all. You were right in maintaining your optimism, regarding our friends’ reactions. It was all just such a powerful reminder of who our friends truly are — and again, how lucky we are to have them._

_And trust me, Big Bird. WE ARE LUCKY._

_As always… You guessed it… MORE TO COME!_

_But first — one more friendly reminder. We’re lucky, stud._

_And with that… Last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  



	14. 12-29-18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullooooo, everybody...
> 
> Going to drop this a bit early... schedule tomorrow is looking pretty strapped, so *drops it like it's hot* XD <3 (I'll see myself out.) XD
> 
> All my love and wholehearted thanks to The_Pop_Culturist for the (as always) amazing beta work. <3 Thanks for all you do, friend... You are the best beta reader in the history of fanfiction and beta readers. <3 
> 
> Enjoy, all. <3 ^_^ Much love!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_December 29, 2018_

  
  


_Dick_

  
  


I shut the door to the house in Savannah with an enormously relieved sigh, and stretched my arms over my head. 

“Let all of the city rejoice, we have _finally_ arrived,” I said, dropping our bags and flopping bonelessly onto the couch. 

Artemis huffed a wry laugh. “And _before_ 2019\. Go us!”

I lay on the couch, cursing the universe for being such a jerk to my girlfriend even in _small_ things, like her first ever road trip — which should have been fun and easygoing and a great way to unwind and relax after days of heavy strain. Nope, a white-out blizzard tarred and feathered the entire stretch of highway between Tennessee and South Carolina, Artemis was so sick we’d had to pull off on multiple occasions so she could politely vomit on the side of the road versus the interior of Bruce’s cherished Range Rover, and _then_ we wound up stuck in a one hundred mile back-up with no end in sight. We finally decided to get the hell off the road until the next day. 

We stopped at a hotel for the night, and I’d barely fallen on the bed to decompress while Artemis showered when I heard her screeching hysterically for me through the door of the bathroom. Her father had shown up in her room at her mother’s apartment only days before — hearing her bellow like that, I thought with a blast of adrenaline and blind, screaming rage that he’d followed us on our drive south, easily blending into the blizzard and traffic, and then had broken in through the bathroom window of the hotel room to attack her while she was off her guard. I burst through the door and yanked the curtain open, fully expecting to find him in there with her like the sick fuck he was, all too ready and looking _damn_ forward to valiantly mopping the tile floor with him and then having his ass locked up and the key pitched into an abyss somewhere on the farthest edges of the universe.

Instead, I found Artemis shrinking up against the wall, one knee drawn up to her middle, arms bent and tight to her body. No masked assassins in sight.

“Dick!” she protested in obvious embarrassment, responding to my sudden entrance.

“Sorry, you called me in here!” I said, floundering. “What happened, what’s wrong?” 

“Please — get _rid_ of that thing —” she hissed, frantically pointing at an assassin bug. _An assassin bug._

Well… not exactly the assassin I was expecting, but I guess one technically.

I stared incredulously at her, not even registering that she was soaked and naked and looking increasingly panicked and irritated all at the same time, and then I burst out laughing.

“Dick, you — _dick!_ Kissing bug bites _hurt —_ if you don’t want a lip all blown up like a bad botox job tomorrow from things _not_ related to my teeth, you’d do yourself a solid to smash that thing into next year!”

I fell atop the lid of the toilet, and just bellowed laughter until I streamed tears and my sides hurt. Artemis was (and is) pretty much the demigoddess of badassery — I mean, that woman has faced giant insects and psycho criminal overlords and slavering monsters and God only _knows_ what else, all with about the same amount of deference one might pay to an adorable puppy. And yet there she was, screaming about a thumbnail-sized assassin/kissing bug just crawling happily along, totally oblivious to both of us, in the bathroom of a hotel in South Carolina. 

Dutifully, I pulled myself together and approached the bug with a wad of toilet paper, tracking it as it ambled its unconcerned, innocent way across the ceramic of the shower stall.

“Hey, buddy!” I said cheerfully, lifting the toilet paper. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, my God, Dick,” Artemis groaned, yanking a towel from the rack. “I’m so done —”

“I’m Hulk!” I continued. “As in Hulk —” I squished the poor guy under the toilet paper, “ _smash!”_

“Ugh, you _dork,”_ Artemis said, but she was smiling now, and seemed a good deal more at ease. She replaced the towel on the rack, and as I went to pitch the pitiable remnants of my hapless victim, she closed the curtain back up. 

When I moved to leave, she swiped it back open.

“Hey,” she said.

I turned.

“Thanks,” she told me, smiling. “I'm obviously not a fan of kissing bugs. I _am_ a fan of kissing _dick,_ though.”

I grinned, landing a kiss on her lips, and left the bathroom.

Trying to shake the image of her _beautiful,_ naked form from my mind as it caught up to my awareness, I made my way back to the main room, and worked to _focus_ and _breathe_ and _meditate_ away the boner that popped up hopefully in my boxers.

(I failed.) 

We hadn’t actually had sex since the… _night of conception._ That wasn’t due to a lack of arousal on my part, but rather to an understanding that Artemis was not only fatigued and ill, she was also struggling with a bubbling swamp of stress. I didn’t at all want to push her into anything she wasn’t up for or comfortable with, especially after the disquieting visit from her father. 

And now, finally lying on the couch at the house in Savannah, and not too late in the afternoon, I sighed, and turned to my back. I stretched my arms and legs, winding down after the nightmarish trip. I smiled when Artemis came over to me, sat down on the edge of the couch, and laid her head on my abdomen with a relieved sigh of her own. I stroked her hair. 

I was more than ready for a vacation myself. Anything to forget the sight of half of Kuttler’s head spattering all over the front of my uniform — another death in a long, long line of deaths that I should have prevented, but failed to. To not think about the fact that the tie between Kuttler and Luthor was effectively gone, leaving nothing to work with in the wake of its passing, or that Sportsmaster was on the loose like some lucid, flail-wielding Jason Vorhees, in cahoots with and under the protection of one of the most powerful men in the world. Er, universe.

Determined to remain in the here and now, I quelled those thoughts, and focused on the present. I wondered if Artemis would want her tea before we actually got up and did vacationy things, given how _miserable_ the drive had been for her — I’d brought plenty, and in the days preceding had become quite proficient at prepping it. “Steep seven minutes, add the juice of half a lemon, and Bob’s your uncle,” to quote Alfred. There was a meditative, validating quality to making that tea, a sense of useful caregiving, that lent me a contented feeling each time I handed her a cup. The scents of ginger and lemon pleasantly evoked for me that period of time ever after.

For being the most haunted city in America for decades running, a title that might normally evoke dour connotations, Savannah, Georgia is nothing shy of pure magic — there’s a sense, upon entering its limits, that you’ve wandered into the backdrop of a fairy tale, with the city’s otherworldly, mossy oaks, graceful architecture, lush parks or squares everywhere you turn, stone streets, and wide, gleaming river. It even _feels_ mystical — the very air full of enchantment and whispered stories. The Wayne family had kept a house Savannah for a long time, even since before Bruce was born, and when the mood struck (“Savannah Fever,” as the inevitable itch to return to the city is known to pretty much everyone who’s been there ever), he was happy to take me on mini-breaks there from time to time. Artemis had never been through Savannah, and I was _stoked_ to introduce her to its many, many charms.

“Well, how’re you feeling, Mama?” I asked her, antsy to get moving. “You hungry?”

She smiled up at me, her cheeks flushed a little pink. Adorable.

“Getting there,” she said, and rose to move over me. “Maybe not hungry for _food_ yet…”

She leaned forward and surprised me a little when she kissed me, her touch gentle, light, teasing. 

“Well, what _are_ you hungry for, Tiger?” I asked, not quite daring to hope this would break our Catholic school kids abstinence streak, wanting her… oh, _desperately_ by then. 

She shrugged noncommittally. I brushed her hair away from her face, and studied her a moment. Her eyes, a deep, gunmetal gray, veiled beneath the long fan of dark lashes, sparkled a little under my obvious admiration. 

“You know, we’re going to have a problem with you being too gorgeous…” I observed with a half-smile.

“Ugh,” she said, wrinkling her nose, although she beamed. “Going to reverse an old play on words… Want some wine with that cheese?”

I laughed. “I don’t know, but I’ll take some cheese with this whine as I go on to mope over how tragic it is that you apparently can’t accept well-deserved compliments.”

She blushed, but her smile deepened. “Hmm. Sweet-talk me like that, Mr. Grayson, and I’m going to think you’re after something.”

“And what a deeply scandalous thought that is, Miss Crock,” I teased, pulling her closer, “what other villainous thoughts are bouncing around in that guttersnipe mind of yours?”

Her smile grew as villainous as the thoughts in question. “Well, keep sweet-talking and find out, Perfect Ten.”

I grinned, rising up to kiss her, pausing as she laid a hand on my chest.

“Thanks, Dick,” she said warmly. “I know I’m giving you crap for feeding me cheesy lines, but secretly?” Her smile morphed to a full-on grin. “I’m kind of a fan of cheese.” 

“Well,” I said happily, still wearing my own stupid grin. “I’m your man, then — a real cheesemonger. So get ready for all sorts of cheese — just big _buckets_ of cheese dumped all over everything.”

She laughed. “Good — I _love_ cheese!”

And with that, she kissed me again.

It was sweet and slow at first, sensual, amplifying at a very gradual pace. I went hard at about the same rate, going a little al dente, and then rising and stiffening until I strained uncomfortably in the fetters of my clothing. I ignored it the best I could as I drew Artemis on top of me, her knees bracketing my hips. I panted when she unexpectedly ground against the growing erection through my jeans, her teeth softly closing on my lower lip before her own parted, and her tongue flickered into my mouth. She passed a hand over my hardness, painful in the confines of my clothing, and then _squeezed_ at it, making me gasp at the sudden mix of pleasure and discomfort. 

It all got rolling so fast from there my brain barely caught up to the present as she pulled fiercely at my belt buckle, and in a rush of tugged clothing, got my fly open and jeans yanked down to snag in a tangle with my boxers around one ankle, freeing my straining manhood. When she slipped from the couch to bow between my knees, pinching the skin of my abdominals with her teeth, trailing her lips in an even path toward her ultimate destination, I bowed my back, my whole body shivering with anticipation, lifting up into her touch as she, contrary to whatever hindrances she had exhibited prior, unhesitatingly swallowed my ecstatic cock.

Rejoicing, I leaned back with a groan on my elbows and rolled my hips as she rose and fell, the wing of her tongue fluttering maddeningly against the shaft of my hardness. She grasped my hips and held me down by them, her tongue pivoting in tensile circles, pressing with a shivering jolt of sensation against the frenulum (thanks, Nik and Mila!) I held my breath as she pulled me in deep, pausing, momentarily hollowing out her cheeks, and then I lost that breath in a moan as she drew me all the way into the back of her throat. Heat closed around me in a humid stricture, rippling as she hummed, the little seisms from her voice unfurling through my belly, rising into my chest, flickering into the muscles of my limbs. I fell flat to my back atop the couch, reaching out and squeezing fitfully at fistfuls of her hair. She released her grip when my hips jerked, rising, probing still deeper into her hold.

My gut cinched up into a blazing coil, signaling that the end was extremely nigh, and, my voice strained and weak, I gasped her name by way of warning. 

Torturingly, she _let go._ I looked powerlessly up at her, silently asking _why_ , begging her to take me to the moment of _release_ that screamed for me at the summit, nanometers away. I forgot momentarily about my desperation, though, catching my breath when she swept her shirt over her head, baring a lacey, silvery bra. She loosened her hair from its ponytail, letting the gleaming tresses fall over her slender shoulders. I about heard angels singing when she drew my own shirt away from my torso, shucked her bottom wear in one throw, and then straddled me at the waist.

I ran my fingers from her clavicles over her breasts, pausing to rest my hand on her abdomen, something of a yogic gesture of communion, acknowledging the “divine light” within my partner. (Yes, we had done one guided session of pregnant couple’s yoga via a YouTube video… color us crunchy for twenty minutes.) Humbled a moment, I left my palm there, replete.

Then, I snaked my hand between my sex and hers, caressing her femininity, my gut agonizingly ablaze as I encountered her flowing heat. And if I worried about whether she was okay with the idea of _us,_ as in… intimately, consummately _us_ , there was no need — she was _undeniably_ aroused, slick and hot and imbruing my fingers as I worked past her ingress, drawn into that soaking warmth when she rocked readily into my touch, her back flexing, lifting her breasts. 

She heartily vocalized when I curled my fingers into her G-spot, halting in her movements, her brows drawn together in a wrought frown. Her muscles tightened and shook as I stroked the blooming knoll of her arousal, unfurling beneath my fingers. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth and swiveled her head in a languid circle, reaching up to unhook the bra and pull it away. I exhaled, arrested by the sight of her over me — the elegant neck, graceful collarbones, firm breasts, muscled arms, long abdomen. I worked her with more force, caressing her clit with the pad of my thumb, relishing the sound as she mewled in her husky voice. I abruptly withdrew my fingers and clasped her hips, lifting my pelvis, needing to be inside her _right then._

She sensed that, and grasped my erection, guiding me, descending, taking me into her with a soft, throaty sigh. Lifting and canting, she rocked her hips, building up a rhythm that had me moaning like a porn star and grasping the breadth of her waist as though it were a lifeline, an anchor. I moved with her, gliding in and out of her warm wetness, my gut lancing tighter and hotter with every movement. Her fingers pressed sharply into my chest as she squeezed the flesh of my pectorals, avoiding the network of bruising on the left.

Then, even as she drew in a shuddering breath and loosed a smokey cry, I _felt_ her orgasm, her interior spasming and fluttering around me, clenching, releasing, sousing me, driving me over the edge.

I came _screaming_ her name, moaning it, breathing it, a mantra that carried me on the bucking waves of that earthshaking orgasm, and as she bore softly down on my twitching, lapsing sex, I released its sound one more time. 

_Man,_ I thought muzzily through my ringing ears. _That didn’t take long…_

I realized how ridiculous I looked when I came somewhat back to myself, splayed out on the couch like it was a doctor’s exam table, clothes still snagged around one ankle, completely flagged underneath her as she sank onto my chest. 

“Happy _extremely_ belated Birthday,” she whispered into my ear.

I laughed, a grin breaking out over my face, still shivering and disoriented and unraveled. “Uh… thanks.”

We cuddled like that for a _long_ time, just resting, relaxing, unwinding. I nearly drifted off a few times, before she sat up, and stretched. 

“You ready to get this vacay rolling?” I asked, running a hand over her back. “Got that ghost tour we looked into lined up at 9:30 tonight. In a _hearse.”_

Artemis laughed. “You sure know how to charm a girl, Boy Wonder. What do you say we shower first?”

“We?”

Her smile grew. “ _We.”_

Happy belated birthday, Merry late Christmas, Happy early New Year to me.

  
  


*******

  
  


“So,” I said later at dinner, endeared as Artemis lit up when a plate of beignets was placed between us, “how about we talk turkey?”

She smirked. “Pretty sure Thanksgiving has come and gone, stud.”

I chuckled as she tore readily into the first beignet, and closed her eyes with a little moan. 

“Indeed it has,” I said, “but we’re not here just to enjoy the scenery. I’ll make talking shop quick and painless — you don’t even have to break rhythm while you savagely decimate the beignet population in Savannah. Fair enough?”

She sighed, sending a puff of powdered sugar everywhere. “Okay, fair enough.”

I smiled. “Well. I’m glad you’re cool with the whole BF, GF tack, so one hurdle down. I can’t help but notice we’ve been a little clandestine about the whole thing, though, beyond the people that already know. How do you feel about coming out of this sort of weird relationship closet we’re in at some point?”

She laughed. “I’m okay with that. Dr. Jeun also said we could comfortably announce things, anyway. How’d she put it? ‘You’re going to take this baby home.’” Abruptly, she sobered. “We might want to be ready for some flames, though…”

“I’d prefer to stay optimistic on that,” I said. “I mean… response so far has been positive, even if a little limited. Our friends are good people, Artemis. I can’t imagine we’ll face a lot of haters.”

“True,” she said, visibly warming.

“As for some of the more… _practical_ stuff, I have a few thoughts.”

She nodded. “All right.”

I tried not to get distracted by how _gorgeous_ she was. Unlike up north, the weather in Savannah was lovely — all balmy, soft sunshine, reaching in tendrils through the branches of the old trees hung with Spanish moss, twinkling on the water of the river. She’d attired accordingly, wearing a little green patterned maxi dress and sandals. She’d pulled her hair half-back, exposing her button earrings. 

“So,” I began, “first of all, I’ve had a key made so you can get into my apartment whenever you want. Alfred’s already said he’ll take you to and from Blüdhaven if I’m not free for whatever reason, so you don’t have to deal with a cab or Uber or anything.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

“Second of all,” I continued, severely lowering my voice and reverting to acronyms, “after the incident with your dad, MM’s seriously expedited the manhunt for SM. They’re also putting a watch on your mom’s place twenty-four-seven.”

Her shoulders perceptibly loosened, and she nodded. “Okay.” She paused, and loosed a long, even sigh. “Dick, thank you. It feels… I don’t know, _strange_ to be grateful for surveillance, but I am.”

I reached over, caught her hand, and squeezed her fingers. “We’re all here for you, babe. Next, and it might be a little early to get into this, but… early or not, ready or not, that baby’s coming, and we need to be outfitted for when it makes its appearance. Agreed?”

She chuckled. “Agreed. You buying a Baby Bjorn to grace that gorgeous torso of yours or something?”

I shrugged. “It was time to update my look. Anyway, we should probably consider how we’re going to raise this kid — like… are we planning on living together sooner rather than later?”

“I’m _more_ than okay with that idea, actually,” she said, plucking a second beignet from the plate. “Especially knowing the big bosses are looking out for my mom. And, uh… well, Dick, call me the Empress of the Simps, but I’ve kind of started missing you after like, five minutes after you’ve left.”

I mock shuddered. “Oh. Stage Five Yandere Clinger.”

“I know _you_ are, but what am I?”

I laughed. “The Empress of the Simps?”

“Screw you.”

I grinned. “Okay! Anyway, in that case, we should probably consider looking for somewhere to shack up together when we get back home. My apartment is _not_ well-suited to a mini, and honestly… I’m not sure if Blüdhaven is the city I want to raise a family in.”

“Right. And while Gotham’s an okay option, I can’t say the Bowery is much better, and I’m not sure how my mom would feel about a cock rolling into her hens only safe place, anyway. Even one as handsome and charming as yourself.”

I laughed. “Be careful, I'm going to have a pretty inflated head if you keep going on like that. So we’ll have to consider living arrangements from here. I’ll get with an agent and we can start checking out some houses —”

“Houses?” 

I paused. “Yeah, I mean… I’d probably say suburbia is the healthiest habitat for the kids of today. Look, it doesn’t _have_ to be a house, if you’d rather stay downtown…”

She shook her head. “It’s not that, it’s just… I don’t know.” She wormed her lip. “It’s a big step.”

“It is, but look. This is going to be more for you and the baby than it will be for me. I’m generally pretty accommodating — half-gypsy rover aside, I can pretty much do my work from anywhere, and I’m almost done with school, so a commute doesn’t really faze me. We’ll get set up close to wherever you’re going to end up working, somewhere safe, comfortable, so on.”

“I appreciate that, Dick,” she said, fidgeting with her napkin. “Just… Like I said. Big step. I want to be sure _you’re_ okay with it. Dealing with a quiet, boring suburb, full of quiet, boring people, full of quiet, boring humdrums. Authoritarian HOAs. Going into debt for upwards of thirty years.”

“You know that’s not going to be a problem for you anymore,” I reminded her gently. “It feels a little _drastic,_ sure, but the process takes a while, so we’ll have some time to adjust. And, moving onto the next highly relevant topic… I’m going to give you access to my accounts, okay?”

“Dick,” she protested, shifting, a flush rising uncomfortably in her cheeks. 

I looked askance.

“I just…” She trailed off momentarily. “You don’t… _have_ to do that for me.”

I smiled at her. “It’s not just for you, Arty. I mean… that’s not to say I wouldn’t be doing this if another party wasn’t involved, but it’s my kid, too, not to sound all backwards and neanderthal. You’re my girlfriend. Let me take care of you guys.”

She softened, and put her napkin down. “Okay. Okay, I’ll try.” She squirmed. “I just… that’s a _lot_ you’re trusting me with, Dick. I’m not always used to that.”

Again, I reached over, and took her hand. “I know. But I stand by what I’ve always said — I trust you, Artemis. In this, and everything else. I imagine it’ll be a bit of a change for you, and maybe not a bad one,” She chortled adorably, and nodded as I continued, “but what’s mine is yours. If you take a shine to a pair of five hundred dollar shoes, tell the clerk to shut up and take my money. You see that Baby Bjorn in question? Consider it yours.”

“You know, I’m starting to feel a bit like a mistress to a high level politician,” she said. “You do this with _all_ your lady friends?”

I grinned, and gave her hand a press. “Only the ones that happen to be carrying my kids — and who have saved my life more times than I can count, and been my best friend besides.”

“Have some wine,” she said warmly.

“And here, _you_ have some cheese. I want you to be happy, Arty, and _cared_ for. And I want to do my part in that, every way I can. Okay?”

She inclined her head, the light from the window catching her twinkling eyes, her glowing cheeks. I fought the urge to just yank her back to the house and _worship_ every inch of her. 

“Again. Why are you so nice,” she said, smiling.

“And again. I’m just me. Also… if your mom ever needs anything, or she’s short on something, let me know.”

“She’ll never stand for it, Dick.” Artemis’ lip quirked. “It’s a nice thought, but she’s way too proud.”

I shook my head. “It’s not a matter of pride, and I don’t mean for it to be patronizing or anything. But she’s _family_ now, Artemis, as are you. Like I said. Let me take care of you guys.”

“And here you were just worrying about what kind of dad you’re going to make,” she said, and although I felt a little sheepish, I reveled at the fondness in her voice. 

“I reserve the right to do that from time to time,” I said. “And on an unrelated, slightly more serious note…”

She lifted her eyebrows. 

“Am I going to get one of those beignets?” I asked humorously.

She laughed, and nudged the last one in my direction. 

“Bottom line, Arty,” I said, giving her hand a final squeeze, “everything’s going to be okay.”

She gave me the cutest, happiest, _sweetest_ look that about unspooled me on the spot. 

“I think I’m starting to believe you, Boy Wonder,” she said. 

  
  
  



	15. 11-8-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, everybodyyyyy... <3 <3 
> 
> First things first, shout-out and all my love and thanks to The_Pop_Culturist for the amazing (as always) beta work. <3 YOU ARE THE BEST, MY FRIEND. <3 
> 
> Second, thanks to the helpful YouTube channel that gave me a nice crash course on how to properly say/spell "I love you" in Vietnamese. I SALUTE YOU! <3 (...I can't remember the name of the channel, CRAP. Stay tuned!) XD
> 
> Third, enjoy STILL MORE fluff. XD Hope you like it and happy reading, loves. :-)
> 
> Much love, all! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_November 8, 2019_

  
  


_Dick,_

  
  


_Not to wax all sentimental, but one thing I know for sure I’ll NEVER forget is the first time we used the fabled L word on each other…_

_When it all came out, so to speak — our finding ourselves in the family way, putting the BF/GF label on our new and somewhat novel relationship, our house hunting and plans to shack up together — as we’ve already revisited, we enjoyed a surprisingly supportive reception from our teammates and friends… but most notably, from Wally’s parents, as well. That I’ll NEVER forget, either — both of us sitting at their house as we came forward with our relationship and plus one status to them before they found out about it through sharking paparazzi and were properly betrayed. We were abashed, contrite, remorseful, shamefaced, totally apologetic. But Rudy and Mary just hugged both of us, overjoyed, assuring us that Wally would be nothing but happy from wherever he was, that we had done nothing wrong, and to please bring the baby over for visits every chance we got. All of us cried, overcome with SO MUCH emotion that day, reminiscing about Wally, chatting over the impending joys and challenges of parenthood, laughing at childhood stories about our loved one, their son. Rudy’s words that led you to even more tears — “Where there is death, there is life, always.”_

_Then… the reaction from the media and greater public._

_You were nothing shy of Gotham’s darling, always fabulous with the press, the handsome, kind-hearted golden boy of Bruce’s adopted children (and you were a ham. You know you were.You showman, you.) You were also a Flying Grayson — a household name through the whole of the 1990’s and new millennium — and your gymnastics acuity was legendary (you have coached FUCKING OLYMPIANS, Dick — you don’t get any more world class than that), so you’d achieved something of a celebrity standing across the States, if not the world. For the most part, though, you really kept out of the media, allowing Bruce to helm the limelight and don that playboy persona much as he would one of his umpteen billion dollar suits._

_Let me just take a second to give you and your adoptive family a standing ovation for continually refusing offers to star in reality television. Considering that I’m a fan of Tim Gunn — the Alfred of the workroom — I don’t think your appearance on Project Runway with your Haly’s troupe as one of the weekly challenges for the designers counts. :P_

_Up until we headed out to celebrate both the grand opening of some posh new art gallery, as society folks apparently are obligated to do, and the move into our house in the subdivision just outside Old Gotham, I had not only hidden my delicate (and scandalous!) condition from the press at the society events I attended with you as your girlfriend, I had also effectively hidden myself. I hovered a little ways behind you, putting up invisible Great Walls of China all around me, blocking myself off from the barrages of questions thrown our way._

_Thing is, Dick — I could handle press and notoriety as Tigress. The anonymity of the mask and the focus being on something other than my personal life story provided a bit of a barrier against the unwanted ramifications of fame. My real life, my quiet life — it was sheltered under that mask, protected, kept hidden. Being all but bare-assed in the spotlight as my real, barely filtered self, one Artemis Crock, daughter of Sportsmaster and Huntress, had me flipping my wig inside and out — like let’s just say my unfavorable relations were unearthed by some particularly tenacious journalist as I traipsed around beside you in silk charmeuse like a wannabe debutante. What the heck would THAT mean for the Wayne family?_

_Scandal, that’s what — way juicier and leagues beyond Oopsies Ever After._

_The headlines, though… Fatal Attraction: An Un-CON-ventional Pairing._

_However… You couldn’t have handled those sharks better if you were prancing with a teacup on your head. You expertly danced around their questions, giving them just enough information to satisfy them without revealing too much, enabling me to just smile and nod and husk monosyllabic answers like the vapid “Dumb Blonde” I pretended to be. It wasn’t long before they took the colossal hint and mostly left me alone (although they snapped a gajillion pictures and always wanted to know where I got my dresses. Have I mentioned that Alfred, on the flip, is totally the Tim Gunn of the Bat Cave?)_

_This night, though, well… the cat was out of the bag. There was NO hiding the extremely pronounced, seven-month protuberance under the maxi I wore to the gallery and cafe opening. So when journalists and Yelpers flocked to the event en masse, we were prepared to handle the media._

_You knew Vicki Vale pretty well, and although she annoyed you occasionally (she was every bit as dogged as Lois Lane, only Vicki gunned with that same pit bull determination for personal details), you mentioned to me that she was the least bloodless of all of the paparazzi you’d come to know over the years._

“ _She has a soft side,” you said. “You kind of have to dig through a freaking sarcophagus of moissanite to get to it, but it’s there. So if you’re going to give anyone a one-on-one, Vicki’s the one to go with. She won’t screw you over.”_

_Conveniently, she was there, having tried to get us to talk about ourselves for months, and when she took note of my considerable belly under the black jersey Costello gown, she launched herself at us as though she were shot from a pop gun._

“ _Tell me you haven’t given this to the Tribune,” she said, staring at my belly with green eyes that just about flashed with dollar signs._

“ _We haven’t announced it publicly yet, so if you want it, it’s yours,” you told her easily, grinning in that laidback way._

_I wasn’t necessarily comfortable, but I did my best. I was honest without being revealing, talking about what I wanted to do with my degrees, what kind of parents I thought we’d make, how we were navigating this life change between the two of us, our days at Gotham Academy together, whether or not we planned on getting married (a question we were accustomed to at that point, although we didn’t really chat it over much between the two of us in private.)_

_Well, our romance was heralded in papers and mags and the Interbutts as the penultimate Cinderella story. Was I annoyed? Oh, my God, yes. Were you annoyed? Oh, definitely, but mostly amused. Was the public annoyed? Oh, hell no. It was practically a damn city-wide fiesta in the wake of our little bun-in-the-oven proclamation, full of well wishers and gushers and gaffes about Bruce, billionaire lady’s man party boy, becoming a Pop-Pop. The gifts he was sent by his society pals… There was the odd troll here and there, but being who we were, we had thick skins._

_Anyway, in the wake of all that, flying high off of the JOY everyone experienced on our behalf, our friends and teammates and family, the public, everyone — we moved into that beautiful house down the road from the Manor (in a suburb — in a SUBDIVISION — how low would we stoop??), and one evening after we’d settled in, we were in our bedroom, blinds and curtains drawn, candles going, music plinking in the background… You know what that means._

_Ugh, you always called it “making love.” And with A STRAIGHT FUCKING FACE — and then you'd just sit there and cackle fiendishly as I cringed and squirmed and pretended not to know you. MAN, I haaaaaated that terminology (okay, I still kind of do.)_

_But… I have to be honest. With you… I could NEVER call it anything else._

_On a whim, remembering a note from Nik and Mila’s book, I laid my hand on your heart-center, holding it there, connecting to you as I reached my Happy Ending (as loudly as I felt like, since we no longer shared walls or had to be considerate of my mom.) You closed your hand over mine, where my palm spread over your chest. You were clearly only seconds from your own peak, riding my the waves of my orgasm with deeper, harder movements, and then suddenly you stopped._

_You looked down at me, your eyes SO blue in the candlelight, that perfect lapis that every painter TRIES to create from their tubes of oils, your heart pounding under my palm. You laid your other hand on the generous curve of my belly, your touch warm._

“ _I love you, Artemis,” you said._

_In the moment that followed, as those words sank in, I felt a huge smile slowly cross my face._

“… _Em yêu anh,” I answered through that smile, so wide I worried it looked straight out of Inland Empire, too happy to care. “I love you, too.”_

_Honestly, I don't know why it took us so long. Maybe we just never NEEDED to say it._

_You smiled, then, equally big, equally stupid, pumped that perfect ass of yours once, twice, (and a few more times, sing Gloria Estefan — come on baby SAY YOU LOVE ME!) and boom. You hit a screaming Big O that went on for damn near an hour by my reckoning. Okay, not that long — but it was a good one._

_You rested next to me on your front for a while, one arm across my chest, your face turned to me, partially obscured by stray locks of hair._

_Then you said it._

“ _If you’re no longer so vociferously opposed to what would technically be a shotgun wedding,” you murmured, “I’ll marry you tomorrow.”_

_I just laughed, finally not quite so opposed to the idea, but not in a rush to realize it, either._

_I wish now I'd taken you up on that, Dick. Really, I do._

_LOVE YOU, STUD._

_More later._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  



	16. 3-14-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all <3
> 
> Thanks Chibi_Nightowl for beta'ing... <3
> 
> Dust out, gumshoes, as Dick likes to say.
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~Ef <3

_March 14, 2019_

  
  


_Dick_

  
  


Wearily, I made my way over the sidewalks to my apartment building, my muscles and lungs aching. Although Artemis would be coming by for the weekend, I anticipated a low-key Friday night, preferably one in which we pretended to be homebodies and remained housebound under the snow and the remnants of the bronchitis I’d been struggling with. I’d headed to Gotham to see Dr. Thompkins for a follow-up that morning, and she assured me I wasn’t contagious anymore, so not to worry about being around my pregnant girlfriend. I hadn’t seen Artemis in over a week due to my unfortunate, piss poorly timed illness and I was going _nuts_.

Yeah, yeah. Call me a sap. I missed her — a _lot._ I’d been feeling so lousy, though, I’d have been equally lousy company. She was still perpetually queasy, even seventeen weeks in, and I really didn’t want her to feel like she had to muscle through her own Mt. Everest of miseries and take care of me (and I sure as _shit_ didn’t want to get her sick.) I’d been fevered and reeling in the early part of the week, cartwheeling my way through a mission that got real hairy PDQ — I honestly think I only survived the fight against members of Intergang because my put-upon guardian angel happened to be working overtime in one of her frequent bids for a raise. My mishaps just happened to be conveniently timed to unintentionally tumbling out of harm’s way as I suffered through battling not only the thugs, but my own symptoms and discomfort. Bruce, from there, forcibly put me on leave before my incubating ass could cause a League-wide epidemic, so I spent the week at home, bailing on my classes and shambling zombie-like through the nine layers of hell known as work. Tasks that normally took me fifteen minutes suddenly required approximately two hours, since I mostly just stared deliriously at the computer screen, trying not to die and coughing until I felt like Bane had chucked me on the ground and given me the People’s Elbow. 

When I wasn’t working, though, I _did_ catch up on some direly needed sleep — I had, as Bruce put it, been burning the candle at ten ends, and if the bronchitis was anything to go on, my immune system had gone on strike and my body had joined in its mutiny against my current campaign to see just how far I could push my obnoxiously human limitations. Artemis loudly sided with my rebellious immune system.

“ _Dick._ For the love of all things holy, good, and sacred… _please_ no more all-nighters trying to keep up with your double life,” she said over the phone, hearing how crappy and pathetic I sounded when I called to warn her about the fact that I’d turned into an ambulatory petri dish. Her voice was gentle, but firm. “Hell, _quadruple_ life, at this point. And I’d strenuously recommend you take a handful of rest days from whatever bro campaign you’re on to win the next Arnold Classic, too.”

“Tur-bro-tastic,” I said weakly, in a very unsuccessful attempt at a Turbo impression.

She laughed. “Also, please remember that I’m a big girl and you really don’t need to dote on me twenty-five hours a day.”

I coughed.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? Take care of _you_ for a change?” She paused. “I can always wear a racy nurse outfit. I finally have the tits for one.”

I laughed, but that devolved into a coughing fit that had me covering the phone and streaming tears.

“Arty, that would go all of one direction for me, and it’s a direction I can’t promise I have the stamina for at the present moment, and that will doubtless infect you with whatever this is, the T Virus or God knows what,” I said once I recovered. “So… you tempt me, but if we were playing Good Idea, Bad Idea, that suggestion would have to fall into the latter category.” I coughed again. “Amazing as it sounds.”

She chuckled a bit. “Babe, are you sure? I’ll be fine, I’ll just wear a hazmat suit and go through decontamination chambers or something before and after I make _you_ a cup of Alfred’s ginger tea.”

“I’d never forgive myself if I gave you the plague.”

Again, she chuckled. “Well, all right. Go to bed and get some _rest_ at least, then, idiot.” 

Yes, ma’am. I did as I was told, and when I wasn’t keeping up with security maintenance for DI and the BPD, I hung out in bed with _Silicon Valley_ humming in the background. 

By Thursday, I resembled something significantly more humanoid, and come Friday, the start of the weekend, I was about ninety-five percent up for getting some necessary legwork done, even if I enjoyed a leftover, annoying dry cough. Once I got the thumbs-up that I was on the mend from Dr. Thompkins, I met Bruce downtown to head to Metropolis together. We drove to keep up appearances — and met with the League’s hot topic, good old Lex Luthor, at Rue Magnifique.

Ostensibly, the meeting was to discuss a bit of business (occasionally, Bruce and Lex _did_ work together, depending on the project — both also worked commonly with Oliver, fun fact), and go over my role on the tech side of things. Now, I know it seems weird that we’d be cavorting with Monseigneur Psychopath, but it behooved all parties to keep up appearances in the civilian halves of their lives. That they had a handful of common interests tended to align their paths pretty often, so working together was a frequent thing, if a hair uncomfortable. And in this case, there was potential for some serious payoff — if the cards were all played right, we’d walk away from this little lunch meeting with a trove of information beneficial to the League (and world. Possibly also the galaxy and entire universe.) Double, triple bonus.

The business side of things went over smoothly, with Luthor complimenting my tech prowess, and offering to provide me a reference if I ever needed one, depending on how I actually performed the tasks at hand. A huge gesture, as a good word from Luthor meant pretty much whatever job at whatever pay I wanted, and without the conflict of interest that Bruce’s word indicated for me — but the idea was an unsavory one at best (and I’ll shamelessly stroke off to my own ego by stating that my skills spoke for themselves, anyway.) I smiled and thanked him profusely, and inwardly opted to panhandle the streets of Blüdhaven before utilizing _that_ tool in my box.

Then, Bruce planted the seed that would hopefully germinate a giant-ass kudzu overgrowth of info.

“So, Lex. Now that business is out of the way, onto other things. I understand you were hospitalized recently,” he said, placing his fork and knife in the _done_ position. “Was everything all right?”

I listened intently. The thing about Luthor is that he’s actually fairly sympathetic at times — even likable. While he’s undeniably a self-serving, narcissistic doucheknob, he wasn’t always that way, so Clark frequently and insistently stressed. And there are still scraps of humanity _somewhere_ in there — no amount of bulldozing hapless innocents to chase his own ambitions has ever seemed to completely eradicate that (to his own chagrin, I’m sure.) And he struggled with his health — he’d had just about every kind of cancer known to humankind, resultant of too much exposure to volatile, unstudied chemicals in his younger years, and continued to battle it all too commonly.

“I see I can’t keep any secrets,” said Lex ruefully. “But yes. More of the same, I’m afraid.”

“Treatable?” asked Bruce. 

“Perfectly treatable, thankfully,” said Lex, “for now.”

“For now?” I asked.

Luthor nodded. “There’s no telling if the present course of action will prove effective indefinitely. It appears that…” Here, he smiled wryly, and lifted his mint julep, “it may be time for me to confront the concept of my own mortality.” He sipped at his drink. “But rest assured, my friends, I have no intention of going down without quite the brawl first.”

Ah. There it was. 

“Your modus operandi, Lex,” said Bruce with a knowing nod. He lifted his own mint julep.

“Indeed,” Lex agreed emphatically. “Never back down from a thing, gentlemen — be that a hard, resistant sale, a grueling political campaign, or even the shadow of Godfather Death himself.”

“Hear, hear,” said Bruce. “It’s my feeling that the sight of the Grim Reaper’s sickle is hardly something to inspire so much as a blink of an eye from you, anyway. You’ve faced far more terrifying forces in the boardroom, after all.”

“Indeed I have,” Lex chuckled. “The Grim Reaper will require something far more effective than his sickle to harvest _this_ soul, my friends.”

“Tell me, then,” said Bruce, “how are you planning on ducking the sickle this time?”

“Well, there are some… rather uncommon resources available to me,” said Lex, thumbing a bit of condensation on his glass. “I’m very fortunate to have a great many friends with access to options that others might not have the privilege to enjoy.”

“What resources?” I asked, tilting my head, feigning ignorant curiosity. 

_Being pretty bold today, Mr. Secretary General,_ I thought, studying him, _why the openness, old buddy, old pal…?_

“Expensive new trials,” Lex said, and having gotten to know him, I recognized his tone as vague by his standards. “ _Very_ expensive new trials.”

“If I may, Lex — expense doesn’t indicate efficacy. Have others participated in these trials prior to you?” asked Bruce. “And if you’re not opposed to my being so forward as to ask, what were the survival rates?”

“Exceptionally few have participated,” Lex explained. “With effective results — as in no deaths to report thus far. However… the methods may prove controversial. We’ll have to see.”

“How are they controversial?” Bruce inquired.

Lex leaned back in his seat.

“The sources of these treatments are… somewhat unchecked,” he said after a moment. “Unfamiliar territory, if you will. And as always, mankind fears the unknown, or what it doesn’t understand.”

“Always,” said Bruce. “Can you tell us what these controversial sources actually _are…_ or who might be sourcing them? I’m assuming it’s not exactly FDA approved or of _domestic_ origins.”

“I can’t provide you the specifics, I’m afraid,” Lex said. “I am under something of an NDA.”

“If they’re so unfamiliar and everyone’s being so _secretive_ about them, how are you sure they’re _safe?”_ I queried.

“Young Mr. Grayson,” Lex chuckled. “When you stand to die anyway, the biggest risk offers the most reward.”

“Speaking of reward,” said Bruce. “Lex-Corp stands to make _quite_ the killing — if you’ll pardon the expression — off these methods, if they prove effective. Maybe WE can help with the clinical trials.”

“Perhaps,” Luthor said with a grand smile. “As I said. We’ll have to see.”

When lunch wrapped up, Bruce and I left to head back to Gotham to start making heads and tails of what we’d heard. On the possibility that Lex was aware of our night jobs, and had gotten Mercy or some underling to bug the car while we were inside the restaurant, we strenuously scanned and checked the vehicle before leaving. All clear, off we went.

“So what I _think_ we have here, reading between the lines,” Bruce said, placing the Tesla on auto and looking over the notes he’d subtly plugged into his tablet, likely during his bathroom trip, “is a tit for tat situation.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” I said.

Bruce nodded. “Luthor supplies to these ‘friends’ of his the desired goods — metahuman genetic material, weaponry and technology advanced beyond the standard earthly fare, information on opposing parties, since as we all know Lex doesn’t subscribe to any side other than his own, so on and so forth — and they supply to him access to these ‘treatments’ that will potentially cure him.”

“Or at least mitigate his illness significantly enough that earthly medicine can catch up,” I agreed.

“Exactly. The question now becomes — who are these ‘friends,’ and why are they harnessing the materials that Luthor is providing them? Equally, why ask Luthor? Plenty of others have access to the items and individuals that have gone missing.”

“Luthor’s a little more high profile and can get them for his buddies faster?” I suggested.

Bruce considered. “Possibly. I _do_ have something of a hypothesis — likely, these friends of his are approaching Luthor because he’s a _quiet_ middle man with direct access to what they desire through Lex-Corp. I.e., they can acquire these items without showing their hand to possible enemies, and also without alerting anyone else to their doings. Probably why he hired Sportsmaster as his muscle. It’s an alliance that defies logic. That aside, Crock is _good_ at what he does.”

“And Luthor’s asking a pretty low price for these items,” I said. “Comparatively, I mean. Like if one of these fabled pals is Ra’s al Ghul, for example, it’s not going to set him back any to let Luthor go for a dip in the pool at his mountain resort.”

“And he reaps massive benefits for that low price,” Bruce concurred. “Moreover, assuming that Ra’s is one of Lex’s clients, it’s not as though Ra’s actually _cares_ in the end if Luthor’s side of things ends up noticed — because it’s not like he can’t outsource to parties other than Lex and his affiliates.”

“Yep. And also meaning that Ra’s can continue to compile the means necessary to overtake the world in his own time, entirely off the radar and unnoticed by the relevant parties, while Luthor charms the globe and also plots to take over, and then they can both duke it out when the time comes. No offense to Lex, but my money’s on Ra’s,” I said, and cleared my throat, which tickled obnoxiously under the strain of talking so much that day. “You know, Bruce, explain something to me — why does everyone want to rule the world? It sounds like a pain in the ass. A _royal_ pain in the ass.”

Bruce just chuckled a bit. “Why don’t you head home and rest up, Dick?” he asked. “You look exhausted — and honestly, still a bit under the weather. I can handle things here. And last I checked, you also have a pregnant girlfriend to attend to.”

I nodded. “Sure do, and whom I haven’t seen all week, since I’ve been in quarantine with the plague.”

“Can’t have that. Best run along now quarantine’s been lifted,” Bruce said, his voice unusually light. 

I smiled, grateful. “Thanks. Dust out, gumshoe.”

And with that, off to Blüdhaven I went, making a beeline for my apartment, ready to sprawl out for a few hours and recharge my batteries a bit before Artemis arrived. As I approached the steps to head up to the door, I caught sight of what appeared to be a balled up trash bag in one of the window wells. I’d been in detective work since I was nine — I couldn’t ignore a misplaced garbage sack in a casement in Blüdhaven. Even if it didn’t prove to be home to something horrifying like the severed hand of a missing crime boss, the landlord would have whole litters of kittens if he were to find discarded trash in the well, and then we’d _all_ wind up in line for a surprise inspection. The last time that happened, I threw all of my vigilante paraphernalia in a box and then _sat_ on it while the inspection went down. That was not a good day for me, let me tell you.

I made my way over to the well, squawking a bit when I slipped on the ice that caked the walkway under the snow. I hunched, recovering my dignity, and then reached toward the balled up, snow-caked wad of black. I froze when the garbage bag _moved._

“What the heck…” I murmured, then knelt, angling to get a better look into the brick-lined pit. I drew up, surprised when I realized that the trash bag wasn’t a bag at all — it was a _kitten._ A tiny little thing, comprised mostly of black fluff, stuck all over with frost and icicles and dusted in snow. Two round blue eyes peeped at me from the mess of pitchy fur. 

I pretty much went to water at the sight, melting even in the glacial, snowy air. Heroes help those who can’t help themselves — and that includes starving, frozen, defenseless, forgotten kittens trapped inside icy window wells in the dead of a relentless, record-breaking winter. The poor thing was probably dumped by someone whose cat unexpectedly had kittens, or was abandoned by its mom, or still worse, the mother had died — either way, it wound up on its own, and apparently wandered over to fall into the window well of the lower level of my apartment building. 

Gently, I reached out, and, cooing at it a bit, drew the little soot ball from the casement, brushing the snow from its poofy coat. I could feel its bones and spinal nubs under my hold, how violently the kitten shook. The bitty little minikin guy or gal was smaller than the palm of my hand. I saw a flash of pink as the tiny mouth opened, issuing a soundless effort at a meow. I held the little ball to my cheek, all at once completely enamored.

“You are just the cutest thing… Let’s take you inside and thaw you out, huh?” I crooned to it, and headed up to my apartment, with the kitten in my hand, clutched to my chest as though it were a holy chalice. “Then we’ll figure out what to do with you… Hate to break this to you, but my girlfriend’s not the wildest about cats.”

Another noiseless meow.

“I know, right? _Dog_ people. But you look an awful lot like a soot sprite and she’s a die-hard Ghibli fan, so that at least might work out in your favor.” Unable to resist, I kissed the poofy head as I shut the apartment door behind me, and placed the kitten on the floor to see what it did. I still didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl.

When the pocket-sized fuzzball made an adorably failed effort to toddle around on the wooden floor and its back legs flopped to one side, depositing it on its rump, I decided then and there I was keeping it. I pretty much fell head over heels in love with that thing — like totally infatuated, wrapped around one bitty kitten paw love, all in one instant. I _imprinted_ on it. Never mind Artemis’ feelings regarding the feline species — surely, she’d get used to a cat in the house, right? Or at least make peace at _some_ point with the unwanted intruder. I hoped. Besides, it could be something of a practice baby for my woefully inexperienced self. Yep, that was the perfect tack to put on things when presenting my case for keeping the kitten to my openly cat-loathing girlfriend--practice baby!

I made a handful of phone calls to a few vets, and when one confirmed they could fit in a visit for my new bestie, I scooped the thing up and was out the door, the kitten held to my chest, sheltered from the cold inside my coat. Well, so much for a nap before that evening, I thought to myself, but this was _way_ worth the lost Z’s. 

“So you’re totally a lucky charm,” I told the cat as we walked along toward the vet’s office, about five blocks from my apartment. My talking to a barely discernible furball that rested cradled against my chest drew a few curious looks from passersby, but I was used to awkward, querying stares. I ignored them, continuing to chat cheerfully to the kitten. “I mean, I can’t help but the notice the timing — hit a motherload of info this morning, and then you show up? Come on. There’s no way that’s a coincidence. Screw superstition. You’re _good_ luck.”

So the vet told me, the kitten was a girl, maybe four weeks old, clearly abandoned, and in dire need of a lot of TLC (which I was happy and eager to provide.) She also wasn’t a hundred percent ready for solid food. I would need to bottle feed her for a few weeks, intermittently introducing solids.

“Okay,” I agreed, thinking on how magnificently well that worked out for both the kitten and myself — speaking of getting my hand in before the baby arrived. It wasn’t as though I’d never interacted with babies before — I actually handled babies and kids pretty frequently — but I’d never really longterm _cared_ for one, outside of lending Raquel the occasional assist with Amistad when she needed it. That I’d be raising an orphaned kitten presented the perfect opportunity to undergo something of a tactile learning practicum before I’d be caring for my own child.

“You’ll also need to burp her after each feeding,” the vet explained, and went on to demonstrate how to go about doing so. I mimed her actions until I got the veterinary seal of approval, then picked up the kitten from where she tottered clumsily about on the exam table before she could tumble off. 

“So you’re _really_ going to be like my little practice baby,” I told her happily, boosting her up to nuzzle her bitty nose. “Hmm. Saved you from where you were yelling in distress from a window well…? Girl, your name is Princess Peach.”

The vet chuckled, and, all business otherwise, went on to inform me that my new cat was too little for shots, and miraculously didn’t need to be dewormed, but she _did_ need kitten milk replacement, either commercial or made myself. She gave me a sheet with a list of recommended KMR brands, and a recipe for one homemade. I signed all the paperwork and set a date to get Princess her shots (we’d worry about getting her spayed later, when she’d gained enough weight), and then let her chill in the inside pocket of my coat rather than the oversized cardboard carrier the vet’s office provided. She seemed to like it in there, peeping her head out every so often, but otherwise making her tiny self at home in the little cotton-lined pouch. I was mindful of her, making sure she had enough air and that I didn’t smush her fragile little body, and keeping her presence close to the vest — literally — as I meandered subtly through a pet store, picking up all the things I’d need as a new cat owner. I couldn’t find any kitten milk replacer, so when I got home with my practice baby, I bustled about making my own (I conveniently had some condensed milk and plain whole yogurt leftover from a cooking endeavor that Jason had tasked me with), while the kitten checked out her new digs. Princess didn’t make it far in her explorations, opting to huddle next to the fireplace like a fuzzy lump of coal while I fixed her milk. I considered texting Artemis about my new tenant, just to give her a heads-up, but then thought maybe I should just let her find out about the altered roomie situation when she came by later, and let the girls acclimate to each other in their own time. Fingers crossed… 

It was hard _not_ to be endeared to Princess, though, I thought as I lifted her teensy, poofy form into my arms, and gave her the bottle I made for her. I melted dead away (again) into the floor beneath me when I felt the tiniest hint of a rumble in her small body as she enthusiastically went to town on it. 

“Well, Princess,” I told her, grinning, unable to help myself, barely more than a hopeless puddle as I watched the little pink tongue lapping up the homemade milk, “if I fall half as hard, half as fast for my own kid as I just did for you, I am _doomed,_ you know that?” I pressed my nose into her tiny forehead. “ _So_ doomed.” 


	17. 11-12-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo!
> 
> And a bright, good morning to all...
> 
> (Ha.) XD 
> 
> Thank you sooooooooo much, daisymagick, for the beta-reading and tremendous fun, and Libraryman85 for being such an awesome brainstormer and stand-up human all around. <3 
> 
> This got a little... heavy? Melodramatic? Emotional? Hopefully it's not too much. XD Either way, I (kind of?) enjoyed it. Or rather, felt inspired as I worked on it. <3 :-) 
> 
> There is a very loose allusion to Nightwing Vol.2 #88 in here... :D Enjoy!
> 
> Much love, all! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

November 12, 2019

  
  


_Dick,_

  
  


_I know I’ve mentioned you’re a total ham. Showmanship is in your blood and bones and DNA, passed down from generation to generation. Doubtless, your offspring will exhibit the same flair for dramaturgy, given enough time. And I’m sure they’ll all learn it from you, the ding dang Rembrandt of the art of performance. You THRIVE on the shouts and thrills from the crowds, take it all in like air and water. You’ve told me more than once you NEED it to survive._

_Just before the performance in Brussels once upon a time, I was jittering my way right out of the little Danger costume number we all wore, suffering the worst onslaught of nerves I’d experienced since my first day at GA, more terrified than I ever found myself before combat missions._

“ _How do you DO this?” I asked you, chewing my nails to shreds, eyeing the tremendous crowd with serious trepidation. “I mean, don’t you get stage fright?”_

“ _Oh, no way,” you replied without hesitation, smiling through the strain of the “flu” you suffered. “When I’m not sick, I LOVE this and pretty much LIVE for it. I never get nervous before a show — I just get psyched out of my mind.”_

_Once a Flying Grayson, always a Flying Grayson._

_Well, not long before the baby was due, Haly’s Circus was touring the US, and was scheduled to put on a show in Blüdhaven — and old Jack wanted you to do a memorial performance in honor of your family. Although you didn’t perform regularly with them anymore, you LEAPT at the chance to hop on that trapeze and just zoom kamikaze through the flashing lights and pounding music under the big top. Those performances were like vitamin shots or mini-vacations — they just ENERGIZED you, and had you flying high for weeks after coming down off the wires. And it was always just as much a thrill for circus goers to catch a glimpse of the world-famous, and last, Flying Grayson in its natural habitat._

_When the circus set up shop in Blüdhaven for the weekend, just three weeks before D-Day, as we came rather irreverently to call the baby’s due date, you woke me up in the morning, early, the cloudy light slanting weak through the window. You were set to rehearse your act all morning with the troupe, and I’d anticipated sleeping in and catching up with you in the afternoon._

“ _Hey,” you murmured when I quit blinking dazedly at you. “You up for coming with me today?”_

_On thinking about it, I confirmed that yes, I was._

_I was SO ungainly by then, my belly like a watermelon on a popsicle stick, throwing my balance all out of whack. I had a hard time standing up straight for extended periods, since the strain of my enormous middle hurt my back and shoulders. I tuckered pathetically fast in the July heat. I’d become something of a homebody, unable to manufacture the energy necessary for outings longer than dinner and a movie or a short walk or jog. You grinned in uncontained excitement, clearly surprised and delighted that I’d agreed to come to Blüdhaven with you._

“ _And I swear, it’s not just to watch me practice,” you assured me._

_I smiled up at you, still lying in bed, propped up on pillows. “I’d be happy even if it WAS just to watch you practice, stud. I don’t think you realize how COOL it is to watch you defy gravity and all the laws of physics.”_

_Your grin only got bigger, and you dropped a quick kiss on my lips. Then you left the room to cobble together some breakfast while I showered._

_I learned fast what your bigger motives were behind bringing me to the circus with you — you were introducing, REALLY introducing, me to the people you grew up with, your home, your family. I followed you into the kitchen trailer first, where I was ployed with some of the most incredible sweet dough by the dear old cook, formerly an equestrian vaulter in her youth and the early days of Haly’s Circus, who insisted you introduce her merely as Granny. (She was old even when you were born, you later told me fondly, when we were out of earshot.)_

_We had a lovely conversation with Jack, who undoubtedly recognized me without the Danger mask, but either way, didn’t let on. He told us all sorts of stories about your parents — even ones YOU hadn’t heard yet. He was a hands-on sort, hugging me on the spot, fearlessly laying a palm on my belly, bringing up through his sudden tears that you were no longer going to be the last Flying Grayson. More hugs, and then you led me to see the animals, where I took note of the gorgeous Lipizzaner, Belgian, and Percheron horses, and the lack of tigers (Gunther and Gurbel had been retired to a sanctuary, by your remonstrations no longer forced into performance.)_

“ _All right, Arty,” you said, just shy of vibrating, “I have someone I REALLY want you to meet…”_

_We came upon a separate pen. In it stood a single elephant, who immediately ambled over at the sound of your voice._

“ _Zitka,” you said happily, readily approaching her and leaning your face into her wide forehead as she bowed to meet you. “Hi, beautiful.”_

_I stood off to the side, feeling a little like an intruder as the two of you shared a moment. You’d mentioned Zitka often before, with a fondness and warmth that an old man might have expressed for a beloved childhood dog, except your feelings seemed to run somehow deeper, more intrinsic. Kids grow up with all sorts of pets, from rocks to fish to dogs to llamas — your pet as a kid was your beloved Zitka, the circus elephant, with whom you shared a truly special connection. You had even described her as a second or surrogate mother once or twice. Zitka no longer performed with the circus, again, per your urging, but she remained with Haly’s, since you hadn’t found a suitable home for her otherwise. (And honestly, I’m not sure on a selfish level you’d ever have been able to give her up.)_

_I felt a little uncertain, standing there — this was, for all purposes, a homecoming between close family members long separated, every witness to the reunion a brazen invader. And Zitka was LARGE, even by pachyderm standards, with a formidable intelligence in her calm eyes. When you at last backed away to give the proper introductions, I hovered stupidly. Ah, the strange things that stump me from time to time — how did I approach an elephant to say hello?_

_She saved me the trouble, caressing your hair with her trunk, eliciting a laugh from you, and then walking right over to me, unafraid, not at all aggressive. She was astonishingly gentle as she snuffled at me, pausing at my belly, by all evidence understanding what was in there. Fascinated, I stroked her trunk, her forehead, her ears. I recalled a story you occasionally told, the one where there was a fire during one of the performances. You were young, barely even a toddler, although you were walking then. In the panic, you were separated from whoever was watching you before the fire department arrived. Your father and mother BOTH sprang toward the fray, but were unable to find you, although they tried until they were pulled away by firefighters. And so you said, Zitka somehow got free, found you, picked you up, and bravely carried you back through the fire to hand you, unharmed, to your frantic, despairing parents. I hugged her trunk, pressing my cheek to the leathery, bristly skin there, sensing the gentle nature of the enormous, BEAUTIFUL animal it belonged to._

“ _Babysit for us anytime,” I told her, and I SWEAR she comprehended what I said, fluttering her ears as though she were amused._

_You became pensive in that moment, not an unusual quality for you, but you weren’t one to go all introspective when you became thoughtful. In your civilian life, you shared your thoughts, always inviting your loved ones into your headspace. But you didn’t share what you were thinking, then — at least, not right away. You went through practicing the routine with the troupe as I finished up some translation work from the week for Drake Industries on my iPad, and then, once you were finished up and had showered, you came and retrieved me from where I sat on a chair in the little makeshift kitchen trailer with Granny, nomming a snack she was kind enough to make for me and chatting with her about her vaulting days._

“ _Let’s head back to Gotham,” you said, uncharacteristically serious. “There’s… someone else I want you to meet.”_

_I nodded, curious. “Okay.”_

_We said goodbye to the Haly’s group, Granny, Jack, and your fellow acrobats all giving me especially warm, prolonged hugs, and headed up to Gotham, most of the drive spent in silence. It wasn’t ever awkward for us, sitting there unspeaking, I mean, but you seemed so… contemplative that I was starting to really wonder what was on your mind. Visits with your Haly’s family usually left you invigorated and cheerful — to see you so quiet and circumspect after one was a little unsettling._

_I really got curious when we pulled into the parking lot of an assisted living facility. I figured you knew someone who lived here, maybe through community service, that you’d developed a relationship with and wanted to introduce me to._

“ _Well, Artemis,” you said with forced buoyancy, focusing on the steering wheel as you shifted the car into park after turning into a space, “you’re going to be the first — and only — of my friends to be introduced to my one surviving family member.”_

_I remember frowning at you, about to ask what you meant._

“ _I don’t know if I told you, but my parents named me after my Uncle Richard,” you said before I could speak. “My dad’s brother.”_

“ _I remember you mentioning his name once or twice,” I said carefully, guarding my words, uncertain of where this was heading, but getting a decent idea._

_You nodded, keeping your eyes on the steering wheel. “So… Uncle Rick participated in the routine that Zucco sabotaged. But unlike the rest of my family… he survived.”_

“ _I remember you said he couldn’t take care of you,” I brought up._

_You sighed. “No. No, he couldn’t.”_

“ _Why?”_

 _You gave me a smile that was nothing but heartsick, and then got out of the car. You opened my door and helped me exit the vehicle, as you always did when I got too big to pull myself out comfortably. I decided not to ask any more questions, and just followed you wordlessly into the complex._

_To my further surprise, you were known there by name, the receptionist greeting you with a hug, nurses and caregivers doing the same, several residents and their attendant family members saying hello and going through brief introductions and congratulations as we passed by on our way to the last room on the right on the second floor._

_You paused when we reached our destination, room 247B. The door to your uncle’s room was cracked, the sound of a television trickling into the hall._

“ _Artemis,” you said softly, “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t relay this to anyone.”_

_I nodded. “Okay.”_

“ _My uncle’s not like… a dirty secret or anything like that — I’m not treating him like Lord Rochester treated his wife,” you explained. “Just… Not everyone copes with this sort of thing gracefully, is all, and… I KNEW who he was before this. And Uncle Rick… he was proud, Arty — a scrappy Irishman through and through. Pity and discomfort would have bothered him to no end, and… honestly, I think it does now, even if he’s not a hundred percent aware of it. That’s not to say our friends would get weird or uncomfortable around him, just — it’s more out of respect for him.”_

_Again, I nodded, and you nudged open the door. I followed you into the room._

“ _Uncle Rick?” you said, your voice the soft, benign hum generally reserved for terminally ill patients or injured wild animals. You approached where he sat in front of the television, and I came up behind you._

 _I couldn’t see him as you bent down to hug him, giving him a warm greeting and mentioning to him that you had someone special for him to meet. But when you straightened, moving out of my line of sight, THERE was your only living relative — a little shell of a man hunched in a wheelchair, one arm missing, his face severely distorted and mangled with old scarring and disfiguration. He didn’t speak, just slowly lolled his head to look at you, the side of his mouth cracked and wet. You took a tissue and wiped his lip. Watching, I could see traces of a former resemblance between the two of you._

“ _Uncle Rick, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Artemis,” you said. “You’re going to be a great uncle soon, you see that?”_

_I approached his chair, and smiled, unintimidated. He wasn’t the first disabled individual I’d met. And there was an entirely priceless NOVELTY in meeting your only living relative — a tangible vestige of the rare Flying Grayson beyond the one I shared a bed with every night._

“ _Well, hi, good-looking,” I said cheerfully, leaning down to him. “Dick’s talked about you — mind if I give you a hug?”_

_There wasn’t a clearly readable response, just a slight parting of his lips, a little groaning sound. I reached out to him, praying my perhaps ill-advised display of affection would go over okay (equally that my excessive belly wouldn’t tip me right into his lap), and hugged him around his impossibly bony shoulders. When I withdrew, his parted mouth turned up into the sweetest, most guileless smile I had ever seen._

“ _Oh, my God, Artemis,” you said._

“ _Sorry,” I said, turning to you, wondering if Uncle Rick didn’t actually like to be touched, and I’d only narrowly avoided having my jaw relocated (or something to that effect, an outburst in a humorless vein of There’s Something About Mary.) “I just thought —”_

“ _No,” you told me earnestly, laying a hand on my arm. “Arty, I haven’t seen him SMILE in… years. Ever, actually. I mean, not since — you know.”_

_I blinked. “Really?”_

“ _Really.” You took both my hands, and kissed my cheek, hovering there a moment._

_A moment of silence, and then…_

“… _Thank you. Artemis… thank you.” You turned your attention to your uncle, back to your sprightly self. “So how about that, Uncle Rick — did you know getting up this morning you were going to get a hug from a beautiful lady?”_

_And your uncle smiled again. Your own grin spread, your eyes shining (I daresay a bit wetly) in the light from the television._

_We spent the rest of the afternoon with him, just a quiet hour or two, watching TV and relaxing in his room, which you, Bruce, and Alfred had decorated for him some years before. It was surprisingly cheerful, a little bright patch in the otherwise drab, institutional building, with plants and wall hangings and yellow accents._

_Sitting in one of the chintz armchairs, leaning back as the TV droned on, your uncle resting beside me — the import of that moment dawned on me. I was the only one who had been taken to REALLY MEET your circus family, not merely be given basic introductions or enjoy passing interactions undercover. I was the only one to come face-to-face with your only living blood relative. You brought me fully into your world — the world of Richard John Grayson, the one with no roles, no alter egos, no affectations to play to the mood of the room… and precious few actual denizens. You’d permitted Wally into that place once, the place that I saw that day, the real, completely unaltered macrocosm in which you lived._

_When we left, you were even quieter than earlier, somber, reflective. We drove home, again without speaking, the silence building between us like a gathering cumulonimbus cloud. And when we got home, and closed the door behind us as we walked inside, the cloud spectacularly burst._

_Your forehead dropped against the surface of the door, and oh, God, you were just BAWLING all at once — those horrible, gut-wrenching sobs that you pray you never hear from ANYONE, enemies included. The ones that contain nothing but years of pain and anguish and despair and grief, that don’t make you feel BETTER for having shed them — just too drained to care anymore. I frantically rushed over, and I didn’t even have to coax you into allowing me to touch you. You just bodily FLUNG yourself at me, sobbing helplessly, your hands fisting my shirt and my hair, spasmodically bunching around whatever they could get a grip on, as we both sank to the floor._

_Those levees totally crushed, you poured out to me about the day you lost your family, there on the wooden floor of our entryway. You told me about how your mother cried your name as she fell, how they all screamed before they hit the ground, how the crowd’s own shouts shifted from excitement to horror all in a blink. You detailed how the flashing cameras kept going, how the spotlights cruelly illuminated everything in stark, vivid clarity. The whole thing took seconds — mere seconds. And then, your family was, as you put it, little more than so many broken dolls scattered — in pieces — across the ground._

_That last I didn’t know, didn’t WANT to know, but I listened, anyway — as you unburdened yourself of the images you could never shake from your endless nightmares, never prevent from assaulting you at even the most innocent, unsuspecting moments. You said people always felt like they needed to see bodies for closure’s sake, but that you’d have given anything not to have seen those of your mother, your father, your aunt and cousin. Because at times, it was ALL you could see — and you wished you could remember them only as they had been, without that terrible monster under the bed._

_I had no words. There were no words for what you felt. I just held you, and let you pour yourself out. There is no real, true way to speak the pain of loss. You can only feel it and pray it doesn’t tear you to pieces._

_I didn’t know if you cried because you caught a painful glimpse of who your Uncle Rick used to be that afternoon when he smiled for the first time in all those years — if it was an aching REMINDER of everything you’d lost. He wasn’t dead, no, but he wasn’t the man you remembered, so really… you’d lost him, too. But while I had certainly seen you cry in the past, I had NEVER seen you cry like this — like there was no end to the coil of heartache inside you, that the more you tried to uncoil it, the longer it grew. Oh, babe, I knew all about that… having a parasitic, endless knot of rage and sorrow inside that at times left you SCREAMING in a desperate effort to unbind it, or at least loosen its tangles. I cried with you until you slowed, tapered, and finally fell quiet._

_And then suddenly, you started to laugh when the baby shuffled under your cheek, where you’d sagged to rest on my belly in the wake of that intense catharsis._

“ _God,” you said through your laughter, dragging a hand under your pouring nose, “it’s like Alien.”_

_I just smiled, unable even to chuckle. My heart HURT for you too badly for your attempted moment of half-hearted mirth. You leaned into me again, and I was happy to hold you for as long as you needed._

_There was a part of me that WAS grateful, at least in some way, to finally be there for you, to comfort YOU in your moment of need. To be the rock you’d been for me, one-sided, for SO long. You’d always assured me it was a two-way street, but that was something I could never quite agree with. But it was at last my very overdue turn to comfort you, there in the foyer that early evening, when you finally opened up to the idea of for once just letting go and BEING cared for._

_In a way, we were both floating on vast oceans, you and I — yours of loss, mine of hurt. I hoped time and again that we could link hands, and keep each other afloat in the choppy tides of our oceans — rather than the unending norm of you holding my head above water._

_Well, you at last took my hand that day, and, for a short while, rested from your own eternal work as my perpetual rescue swimmer (the Artemis One Man Coast Guard, perhaps?) And I was reminded, as I held YOU, and for once dried YOUR tears, that I had been invited fully into your world. No masks, no secret identities, no performances, no roles. I was a part of it now. And whatever it held, or might hold, I was and AM grateful to ever have been a part of it._

_I love you so much I can and can’t stand it, Boy Wonder._

_Yep, more to come…_

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Richard was vaguely referred to in the spin-off comic, stating that he wasn't able to care for Dick after the incident with Zucco, and Weisman didn't really give any clear response during a QA question about him... Sooooooo I decided to give Uncle Rick an introduction and explore why he wasn't able to take care of Dick, and equally why he never seems to show up in Dick's life. <3 <3 <3


	18. 4-17 - 4-22-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! <3
> 
> Updating early, tomorrow's packed, once again... <3
> 
> Oh, look! MORE PLOT!! XD I hope you guys enjoy. This one takes a few liberties with Slade, but I hope you'll forgive those for the sake of the story. <3
> 
> Also, HAI LENA! <3 XD I love the CW's OCs... I HAD to give her a cameo. :D 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! <3 Many thanks and much love to my beloved daisymagick for being her wonderful self and for the awesome beta work. 
> 
> Much love and happy reading! <3 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

April 17, 2019

  
  


_Artemis_

  
  


I approached the door to Dick’s apartment, about to fit the key into the lock, when movement in the shadows caught my eye. Instantly, I tensed, straightening my back and moving a little ways from the light that shone over the door. I took care not to strike the step that hedged the landing, and peered into the shadows that blanketed the fire escape. 

Dick’s apartment was on the single nice stretch of road in Blüdhaven — but it was still Blüdhaven. It lived up to its bad rep, thieves and crooks abounding on its derelict streets. I was distinctly pregnant and walking into a luxury loft apartment — a presumably easy target with a fat purse. 

The shadow shifted with the sporadic deliberation unique to human movement. I adopted a subtly ready stance, prepared to throw down and protect myself if need be, but not pushing the figure on the defensive. 

“You can relax,” the figure said, the voice very well known, and confirmed as Deathstroke’s when Slade Wilson stepped into the light on the landing from the fire escape. “I’m not here for a workout, Tigress.”

I paused, although I wasn’t surprised that Slade knew who I was. He and my father had done jobs together a time or ten, and those connections likely revealed my identity with enough probing. 

“What do you want, then, Slade?” I asked, maintaining as much distance between us as I could manage. “My father send you?”

He shook his head, his arms crossed over his chest, his back straight, his lips set into a thin line within the frame of the silvery goatee.

“In a word,” he said, “help.”

I frowned, and skeptically inclined my head. “Help?”

“Yes,” he told me soberly. 

Was it a trap? A ruse? A lure? It could very well be any or all of those things, something orchestrated by my father, or even possibly Luthor — a probe of sorts to learn what we knew. Still, this was direct, even by my father’s standards, and especially on the part of Lex. Equally, that I would never ignore a request for help seemed an uninspired strategy on behalf of both men. Neither Dick nor I had crossed paths with Deathstroke in nearly a year, leaving the possibility of a more recent, burning vendetta pretty unlikely. I turned my back to the door of the apartment — an anchor for balance in hand-to-hand combat. The fire escape was one side step away, my best bet if he (or hidden lackeys) opened fire or swung swords. 

“You have been…” He paused, as though considering. When he spoke again, his words were issued slowly, chosen with great care. “You’ve been investigating the rash of metahuman disappearances, haven’t you?” he asked, his single eye intent, flinty with the heat of dry ice.

“Maybe others have been,” I said. I indicated my distending belly, lying out of both sides of my teeth. “I’m not exactly the most active member of Young Justice right now. I’m not the one to ask.”

“You are,” he stated flatly. “You’re Crusher Crock’s little girl. According to him, you’re thick as thieves. And he talks — a lot. I want to know if he’s said anything to you about a subject that is of… very special interest to me.”

I snorted. “I might share DNA with Crock, Slade, but…” I held up both index fingers, spaced as widely apart as my arms would allow, “this is us. We’re _not_ exactly what you’d call simpatico. Regardless of what he might have told you.”

“I _had_ wondered,” he admitted to me. “A daughter that flouts his desires in open rebellion by directly interfering with his assignments didn’t sound to me like an especially obedient one.” His lip thinned slightly, something of a smile. “Something I can understand.”

I just lifted a brow at him. “Look. Whatever he might have said, I actually haven’t spoken to him in months and if I can help it, I _won’t_ be talking to him any time soon. Or ever. What is it you want to know?”

Silence stretched between us a for a moment.

“My son, Joseph,” Slade murmured, “disappeared last Wednesday.”

I paused, my gut declining. “What?”

“My son is missing,” he said. 

I frowned as that sank in.

“Joseph is a metahuman,” Slade went on. “It’s something I’ve kept under _very_ tight wraps up until now.” He paused. “Not tight enough, apparently.”

I tilted my head, studying him. A deep, black circle under his single eye, a fresh smattering of lines too pronounced to have been acquired after less than a year — stress lines. His clothes were tidy enough, but not as impeccable as they might have been for Slade Wilson’s off-time hours. He made a killing — pardon the term — off his work for the Shadows. I frowned. 

“How old is Joseph?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“Joseph is seventeen,” he replied.

“Can you tell me more about the circumstances of his disappearance?” I asked, feeling very inclined to believe him in his barely hidden earnestness and worry.

“He was going to walk home from school,” he said, “have a break at the house, and then go from there to speech therapy, seven blocks away. He never made it home, according to security cams. I first learned that he was missing when his speech therapist called to inform me that he hadn’t made his session.”

“Has there been trouble at home?” I asked. “Anything that might have motivated him to run off to a friend’s house and lie low for a while?”

Slade shook his head. “Not that I can tell. Joey is… He’s rather a sensitive boy — highly disinclined to incite confrontations or partake in them. But he’s strong enough that when a challenge rises, he doesn’t run.” There was a beat. “Whoever is harvesting these metas, these weapons… I highly doubt their intentions are magnanimous — and I _know_ in my gut that’s where he is. I’ve gotten nothing of use from my usual sources, and generally, my sources _know all.”_

“The Shadows aren’t still around for being clueless,” I concurred neutrally. 

“And… My son is a gentle soul, Artemis. Truly, a soft-hearted kid. I am… Very worried. Very concerned. I know you and your own are better equipped to find him than I am on my own. You understand what approaching you for assistance represents to me.”

I stared. I would never have liked Slade for a caring father type. I didn’t even know that he _had_ kids — how could I even believe his claims? But then, I had also never seen him so discomposed. There was such a huge disconnect between Deathstroke and the man in front of me now that I had to entertain the possibility that what he told me was the truth. And if he did…

In spite of myself, and in spite of the fact that I didn’t trust Deathstroke the Terminator as far as I could throw him, I decided at least to hear him out.

“Slade… do you want to go somewhere else and talk?” I asked. “Really talk?”

Dick would blast through the roof to find me at Pour up the way, having coffee with one of our archenemies, likely having fallen for the oldest trick in the book. And he was due home at pretty much any moment — he’d texted to let me know I might beat him to the apartment, since he was leaving to pick up take-out on the other side of the city, and that was over half an hour before. But a coffee shop was more public — a little safer, less likely to invite assassins or the chance for a scene. And I could gather my details there and then make a decision on whether to present Slade’s uncharacteristic cry for help to the League.

“I would prefer to get off the street, yes,” he said. 

“Well, listen,” I said. “My boyfriend is due home shortly, and I’m not sure how he’d feel if he walked in on me having coffee with a strange man in his apartment. But there’s a coffee place up the street. Sees plenty of traffic, but there are quiet, private places to sit. How would you feel about shifting over there?”

“I can agree to that,” he said.

“All right,” I told him. “Let’s go.”

  
  


*******

  
  


_April 18, 2019_

  
  


“Lena Luthor,” I said with a clinical version of cheer into the mic. “I appreciate you taking my call. I know you have big, important stuff to do.”

“A call from the League or Young Justice I am morally obligated to take, Tigress,” Lena replied. “What can I do for you?”

I leaned back on the couch in Dick’s apartment, where I was presently working from home for the League. I had many tasks at hand — one of which was to assist our one-time enemy Slade Wilson in finding his missing son, who was the fourth metahuman to go missing in about six months, and the other was to probe some inside sources for info on Luthor — anything that might _finally_ implicate him in the possibly coinciding disappearances of highly advanced (and highly illegal) technological weaponry and, more importantly and more pressingly, metahumans. Equally, I was to attempt turning up any evidence that would tie those ongoing strings of disappearances together. We’d lost all links and connections when the audio interception was lost and Kuttler murdered, so we’d been at Square One since December. I was trying to at least get us to Square Two again. I feel it important to mention that after an hour or so of talking with Slade, it became _very_ clear that his fears and concern were heartfelt, so I presented his case to the League immediately after we left Pour. Superman arrived to escort him to the Watchtower for further questioning, and probes from both M’gann and J’onn confirmed that he told the truth. And in the spirit of the League, we rallied behind our enemy to provide him the assistance that he sought. His son, after all, was completely innocent and in desperate need of exactly the kind of help that the League could provide.

And I’ll be honest. In the position I found myself in, I sympathized with him a lot more readily than I might have otherwise. 

So… I was gumshoeing. Very low-key gumshoeing (even if the mystery at hand was getting more and more critical to unravel.) From the surface of a couch. Spooning our collective favorite throw pillow and rapidly burgeoning, happy, purring cat. 

It was meant to be _low stress,_ okay? Dick’s very angry insistence in the wake of my agreeing to talk with Deathstroke alone, not mine. Although by then, I was constantly tuckered and winded and long past arguing. 

(I know. What the heck, right? Well, at the time, I was in a neverending plucky, cheerful mood in spite of the miseries of pregnancy, so I wasn’t really feeling my usual cantankerous self to begin with. And his concern managed to somehow be endearing, not insulting. I guess pretty eyes go a long way.)

“Well, a little birdy told me that Internal Affairs over at Lex-Corp might be hiring an arbitrary team to launch an investigation into your dear brother’s business practices _,”_ I told Lena. “One that involves…” I checked my notes. “Some shell company that’s by all appearances been involved in some as yet undetermined, but most certainly shady business dealings? And that you’re being questioned as a witness of sorts in this investigation?”

“Your little birdy didn't lead you astray, rest assured. Shady doesn’t even begin to cover it. But we _are_ talking about Lex — since when has _anything_ he’s been involved in failed to be completely flagitious in some way?”

“Oh, since the twelfth of never,” I replied. “Look, I know you're busy, so I'll just be direct, here, before we go off on _that_ tangent. Can I ask… what _is_ this shell company, where is it, what makes it so sketchy, and why is Luthor suspected to be involved?”

Silence. A sound of clinking, likely ice in a glass.

“I apologize on this note, Tigress, but I _did_ sign an NDA. On the occasion it turns out to be nothing, or that it’s not even connected to Lex…”

I shifted Peach off the bow of my abdomen, where she continually kneaded her sharp claws through my shirt. 

“Understood. And I'm sorry to do this to you, Miss Luthor. I know he’s your brother.”

“Well. Every family tree has its snakes, and occasionally those snakes can entice even the best person to take the apple.” She sighed. “Lex all too often has proven himself that snake.”

“I know how that can be,” I said in a rare moment of rapport. “Listen, we’re just kind of trying to piece things on him together ourselves. If — mmph.” I broke off when the baby’s foot sharply lodged in one of my lowermost ribs. I squirmed to alleviate the pressure. “Sorry. Anyway. If I’m understanding things correctly, the IA guys have actually been looking into this for some time?”

“You understand correctly,” Lena confirmed.

“Can you tell me if they’ve actually _tied_ Luthor to it yet?”

“Sorry, Tigress. Again, NDA. I’m involved in this investigation, and I stand to lose _everything_ if I flap my gums too freely.”

I clenched my teeth, frustrated. This was one of our last truly reliable sources, if not _the_ last — and we were getting clotheslined by non-disclosure agreements.

“Listen,” she said, her tone now conspiratorial, “and I don’t know if this will actually _help…_ But I might have a business affiliate who has a friend who has a friend that _used_ to work for Lex-Corp,” here, I chuckled, “and he might have mentioned _off the record_ that there were some classified projects going on in one of the company’s many off-site facilities — a facility that just _happens_ to share in the same geographic location as our highly suspicious shell company.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I agreed. “Which facility, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’ll just bring up that the _Daily Planet’s_ beloved and eternally meddlesome Lois Lane might have caught wind of the whole thing and swept away with her photographer pal to go do some undercover work in her mild-mannered coworker’s hometown…”

I scribbled a note. _Smallville._

“Equally…” she continued, “there’s a rumor floating around that _cryonics_ are involved. In a facility that supposedly produces specialized industrial light bulbs.”

I paused, at once heartened, and scribbled another note. _Cryonics. Missing people, metas, JW?_

“Any possible connection to something like a rash of missing people?” I asked casually.

“Well, cryonics and missing metahumans in the same sentence,” here, I lifted my eyebrows — scoreboard, Lena, 1, “not to mention a website potentially in the vein of Backpage…”

“Hmmm. Sounds like metahuman trafficking, now, doesn’t it?” I said.

“I would say it sounds as though my brother has graduated from trafficking highly volatile inanimate weaponry to _living_ weaponry.”

“Okay, but to what end?”

“It’s Lex. Power and profit, always.”

“See, we’re not so sure. Thing is, what _kind_ of profit — I mean, he already _has_ power and profit, so like, who is working with, and what does he stand to gain in this particular case? We’ve had our own thoughts on what he’s after and checked his old alliances, but we’ve made no readily apparent ties. Any ideas who he’s working with or what he specifically wants?”

“That I can’t tell you,” said Lena, “NDA or no. I honestly don’t have a single clue who he might be selling to or working under, or who might be working for him.”

“Well,” I said, “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I _do_ have it on good authority he’s working with Sportsmaster.” 

“Is that so?”

“I’d love to say it ain’t so, but…”

“Why is he working with _that_ washed-up old con?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

“Well, that’s what we’ve been trying to find out — definitively,” I explained. “Our suspicion is that Sportsmaster is essentially his hired muscle. If it’s metahuman trafficking or an illegal arms trade, the partnership actually makes a hell of a lot more sense. Luthor _needs_ someone who can execute that sort of thing, and whether Sportsmaster’s getting old or not, he’s still _completely_ capable, trust me. So… Luthor sets up the jobs, Sportsmaster performs the thefts, kidnappings, so on, collects his assuredly handsome paycheck, and then Luthor turns his own desired profit off of the acquired questionable goods.”

“Sounds like something my brother would be involved in,” Lena sighed. “Just a hint — I’d start looking for miracle cures or fountains of youth. You know he’s been ill again lately, so… he might be on something of a Ponce de Leon quest. Other than that… I’m sorry that I couldn’t help more.”

Scoreboard, Lena, 2. I smiled, highly impressed. That girl was, as the quote said, tough as old tree roots. 

“No, you’ve been a _big_ help,” I assured her. “A tremendous help, actually. We finally have somewhere to really start looking. Thank you, Miss Luthor.”

She snorted rather inelegantly. “Oh, please. You really might as well call me Lena.”

“Fair enough,” I said, smiling. “Seriously, Lena — thank you.”

“Good luck,” she said. “And if you and your people pull ahead of the investigation on this, all the power to you.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Have a nice day.”

Taken aback, my smile widened. “Thanks. You, too.”

I hit the end prompt on the team only cell, and, flying high off of this unusually perfunctory, successful phone call, I rang Bruce, and brought him up to speed.

“Well, let me ask you something, Tigress,” he said. “Would you potentially be up for a very small undercover operation? Nothing overly strenuous — we’d be sending you and a small team to do a little civilian probing and reconnaissance in this Lex-Corp facility in Smallville. Apart from seeking evidence of the obvious, you might want to turn up Lane and Olsen — see if you can get a feel for anything they might have found so far.”

“All right,” I said. “Well, it doesn’t sound like a particularly risky business, depending on how this team and I drop in on these Lex-Corp digs, and I’m going pretty stir crazy, anyway. What’s our play, and who would I be sent with?”

“The play is as simple as orchestrating a meeting with the manager of the facility as a team of spatial engineers — all to improve the flow of production within the building. Nightwing is more than capable of planting the necessary electronic documentation to facilitate the authenticity of this ruse. It will be a job spanning a handful of days, and should give you access to all areas within the facility. The hard part is going to be that you’ll have to _sell_ these services… Cold call the manager, offer a free consultation, gather what you can in this time frame in case things don’t transpire the way they should, and go from there.”

“Can’t we just break in after hours and find what we need?”

Bruce surprised me when he chuckled. “We can — but we’ll cross that bridge only if we come to it. Weighing the options, the most efficient way to explore the facility is to enter it undercover as welcome guests — not thieves in the night. If any costumed Leaguers were to be caught breaking-and-entering on such a monumental scale, and in such an unexpected place, this could really —”

“Blow up in our faces, I get it,” I said. “Count me in, Boss.”

“Can you be at the Bat Cave at 1400 hours?”

“That’s doable,” I said.

“Good. Meet me there then and we’ll go over specifics.”

“Okay. And… Thanks, Bats. Like I said, I’ve been going _nuts.”_

As I hung up, I paused. 

Although Dick was usually extremely understanding and sympathetic toward my vigilante goals and endeavors, he was going to shit a _brick_ over this one — no matter how comparatively low risk it might have been. Especially after the little stunt I pulled with Deathstroke only the day before.

  
  


*******

  
  


_April 21, 2019_

  
  


“Artemis. We’re here.”

M’gann’s voice. Her hand on my arm shook me awake. I came to, my cheek tacky against Zatanna’s shoulder. 

“Where?” I asked stupidly, sitting up, embarrassed. I fought with my tangled hair. “Sorry, Zatanna.”

“It’s okay,” she said. She nudged me. “You know I’ve always wanted to hold you close.”

I chuckled a bit, and ground my fingers into my sandy eyes. “So — where’s here, exactly?”

Outside the car, it was dark. I blinked. We were in the parking lot of a hotel.

“Smallville,” Jade replied from the driver’s seat, turning to look back at me. “Game’s on tomorrow morning. And text your little lovebird — he’s probably _molting_ by now.”

I scowled at her, but acquiesced while Roy went into the hotel to check us in.

“You sure you’re up for this, Artemis?” M’gann asked. 

“I’m up for it,” I answered, looking at the screen of my phone. “I’m in delicate condition — I’m not actually delicate.” 

“Any word from Dick?” asked Zatanna.

I laughed. “Yes. Lots of words, actually.”

“It’ll be all right,” said M’gann.

I yawned. It would, of course — this wouldn’t be the riskiest mission ever, especially given that the Roy along for the ride was _not_ the original Roy Harper, known for blowing cover, wrecking reconnaissance missions, and sending them southwards in a hurry. The Roy with us was none other than my brother-in-law.

Bruce had laid out the roster as we went over the mission in the Bat Cave. It would consist of Roy, Jade, Zatanna, M’gann, and me — the reason for the outsourcing being that Jade was an expert in the field of infiltration and espionage, given her extensive experience in both fields, and Roy… for reasons neither nice nor magnanimous. He was brought on strictly to keep her in line. This was never explicitly stated, but the knowledge of his role hung over the entire job like a fat, heavy cloud. I entertained a little irritation that I didn’t express — Jade was, by then, a refugee from the Dark Side, happy to leave her poorer life choices behind in favor of the new leaf that living with Roy and raising Lian turned. As for the others, M’gann, as a shapeshifter, was a shoo-in, and Zatanna the same for her own abilities to render guises through her mystic abilities. After all, two half-Vietnamese women wouldn’t exactly be inconspicuous in Smallville, Kansas — it was a wiser approach to become people who literally did not exist, supposedly or otherwise. Dick would not be invited along for a peaceable road trip to the Midwest and a fun bit of role play in the Lex-Corp facility because, so Bruce maintained, his objectivity was going to completely vanish if his pregnant girlfriend happened to be in tow.

“Why are you sending Jade, then?” I asked.

“Your sister is a horse of a different color,” Bruce said with an ironic smile. “I think she can be trusted to keep her head in the game if things go south — however unlikely that might be. That aside, he’s needed here — he’s got plenty of things to do without being sent to Kansas on a recon mission.”

And now, here we were — in Smallville. The following day, we’d be adopting our personas as spatial engineers, and approaching the manager of the Lex-Corp facility (that Lena confirmed to be the proper location) to make a “deal.” Roy had sent this Garrett Wiley an email — to which the man had responded favorably. Meaning… it was full sail ahead. 

We piled into the hotel, and I curled up, fully clothed, shoes still on, atop the bed nearest the window. I was too fried to do a whole lot other than that. I texted Dick while Zatanna and M’gann (my roomies until the job was completed) ordered pizza.

 _How goes it in ye olde commonwealth of Bloody Haven?_ I sent. _Sorry for going AWOL, I SWEAR I have a good excuse <3_

 _YOU’RE ALIVE :O,_ he sent. _Dude, if Wally hadn’t already bombed the toilet, I’d think this was him giving me a legit penance. -sigh- How are you?_

 _Oh, I’m fine, Big Bird,_ I sent. _Again, sorry. Fell asleep and drooled all over Zatanna. Pretty sure that means no pillow fights in our underwear later D:_

I grinned when I got a text back.

… _Goddammit -jumps off cliff-_

I replied, _Don’t jump. We can always stage one and take a photo. You know, for a price :P_

 _NAME IT,_ he sent, and my grin widened.

_I want a dick pic, like RITE NAO_

I laughed out loud when he sent me a selfie in his boxers, his expression a mockery of every Instagram model ever, the fingers of one hand laced with comic precision in his hair. 

(FYI, he _still_ looked hot.)

 _Wtf is this happy horseshit??_ I sent.

 _What? It’s a Dick pic!_ he replied.

 _But it’s not a penis pic :’(,_ I specified helpfully. 

_Now, now,_ I received, _I don’t want to violate the League’s Code of Conduct._

I snorted. As I was typing out a protest, I got a (pretty sizzling) naked photo of him (aptly captioned, “ _NSFW.”)_

Hooray! 

After pizza and an episode of _Chopped_ , I obliged Dick by posing with Zatanna — in our bras, with pillows. It was a comparatively subtle photo, taken by a raucously giggling M’gann, and we made the stupidest faces imaginable, but it sufficed, apparently — a few minutes later, I received an image of the fapping troll, followed by the text, _Fap fap fap fap fap fap fap_

We all laughed, and after sending Dick a text goodnight, I piled into bed with Zatanna. In spite of the intimidating, packed days ahead, I slept soundly, with my best friends near, and my sister and brother-in-law in the next room.

  
  


*******

  
  


_April 22, 2019_

  
  


“So if we were evil criminal overlords… Where would we hide our compromising materials, more specifically, one Joseph Wilson?” I asked Jade, trailing her as we moved through the building, maps in hand. It wasn’t a serious question — but she answered, anyway.

“Work first, Grasshopper,” she murmured. “We should probably _do_ some spatial engineering while we’re here — make it worth the money Mr. Wiley’s coughing up. Especially since the poor sap has probably never even had a sniff of what’s truly going on within his factory, even as it passes right under that impressive nose of his.” She looked over at me with a familiar, obnoxious expression. “I take it you’ve never actually done an infiltration job like this one?”

I glowered at her.

“Your foray into the deep with that gorgeous Atlantean who just happens to be my husband’s best friend aside,” she clarified.

“I hate you so much sometimes,” I grumbled. “Anyway — I _have_ done infiltration jobs, just nothing quite like this one, where the job I have to do to keep up appearances is something I know all of jack and shit about.”

She chuckled. “Well, you’re in my territory, now. Welcome to the Land of Delicate Operations, Grasshopper. Stick with me, and you’ll be all right. Really, all you need to do is become eloquent in the language of bullshit.”

I grinned. “I can do that.”

“Good. Don’t be afraid to play up the pregnant airhead thing, either,” she told me. “No one will ever question or go off on a pregnant woman — unless they’re a totally irredeemable prick.”

“That seems really stupid to me,” I observed humorously. “I mean, I’d go off on you even if you were pregnant.”

“Then you’re a totally irredeemable prick,” Jade said.

“Pot calling kettle, there, my dear sis,” I giggled.

She grinned. “First order of business — let’s approach someone for a tour of the automation room. The one that produces synthetic sunlight bulbs. Maybe we’ll locate our fellow undercovers in the process and get a better idea of where to start looking faster.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” I agreed.

The automation room was _completely_ mechanized by computerized robotic systems — all of which moved fluidly, with an almost balletic grace and precision. I couldn’t help admiring the perfect synergy between each machine as materials were shifted between them, crafting light bulbs the size of my bedroom window, different belts dedicated to separate varieties of bulb. 

_What spatial engineering,_ I thought, a little concerned for the security of our ruse. _This room obviously doesn’t need any help._ I turned to the guide — a clearly put-upon woman from Ops, who apparently had a never-ending list of Shit to Do and did _not_ want to be here, giving tours to our rude, invasive selves. Not to mention — she _clearly_ thought the two of us to be a pair of incredibly under-qualified, ditzy women.

“I see there are a _lot_ of different types of light bulb here,” I observed. “Can you tell me a little about each of them?”

The guide smiled, the expression every bit as mechanical as the machines in the automation room. “Why is it you want to know?”

I inclined my head. “Just curious.”

“Well, each of these bulbs will produce rays that emulate the light of different suns,” she explained. “Red sun, yellow sun, blue sun, etc.”

“Blue sunlight?”

“Yes, these rays are especially powerful,” she said. “Blue sun is just a blanket term for a supergiant star in the field —specifically blue supergiant stars. They’re used in highly specific projects, some of which are, in fact, classified. Lex-Corp outsources to several clients, notably to branches of the United States military and government, as well as other prominent organizations. But don’t worry, he vets them very carefully.”

I nodded. “I wonder what they use the sunlight for.”

“It’s anyone’s guess, ma’am,” the guide said, and although I immediately bridled at the use of _ma’am,_ I recalled that I was wearing a glamour charm under my shirt that apparently made me look like a middle-aged, cookie cutter Midwestern woman.

Jade glared at me. “We don’t care about _any_ of that right now,” she hissed under her breath as we fell into step behind the guide as she took us down a hallway.

“It might be good to know at some point,” I snapped. “Besides, it maintains our cover. Anyway, keep on the look-out for L and J. Even the big man Mr. W couldn’t tell us the specifics of what they’re doing while here.” 

“Probably not donning the guise of a team of spatial engineers,” she said. “What’s your beau up to while we’re here, while we’re on this subject? Why didn’t he get sent along?”

“B was worried he’d focus too strongly on me because of the delicate package I happen to be toting around,” I said. “It’s a reasonable enough concern, I guess, but that aside, he’s handling the cyber side of things and that takes time and concentration.”

Jade nodded, and plastered on a big, fake smile as the guide doubled back to lead us down another corridor to continue our tour and game of Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free with the revered Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen, and more soberly, Joseph Wilson.

  
  


*******

  
  


We didn’t actually find Lois or Jimmy, and we definitely found neither hide nor hair of missing metapeople, but we _did_ wind up finding a curious door on the far end of the mechanical floor. It was blocked, or locked — in some unknown way, given there was no handle. M’gann linked us psychically so we could freely communicate. 

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Zatanna through the link, mimicking my own words from days previous. “And exactly what manner of location do you suppose this leads to… because it sure isn’t on any of our maps or blueprints.”

“That it definitely is not,” said Roy. “I’d _really_ like to know what employees would have to say about this door and where it goes — or if the majority of them even know about it.”

“To the untrained or unsuspecting eye,” said Jade, “this would merely appear to be a former entryway, sealed off and no longer in use. If they even bothered to take that much notice of it. Most wouldn’t.”

“Even if it turns out to be a storage closet with an old dustbin and a couple of mops inside, it’s worth trying to bust into,” I said. “M’gann, is it possible for you to density shift through it?”

“I could — but I need to be sure it’s not, like… a dud first,” she said. “It could be a door that leads to nothing — like Jade said, a former entryway since closed off, filled in and sealed. I might end up inside the wall. Never much fun, trust me.”

Dick had lent out his holographic computer (after begging me to take good care of it.) I opened it up, typing in the temporary passcode, _Princess Peach rules the world!,_ to scan the wall.

“This only has so much reach,” I said, “or so Dick told me, anyway. You guys checked for security cams, right?”

“Yes,” Roy verified. “There are several on this floor — a little odd for an extended boiler room. Dick and Barbara took care of them while you and Jade went on your little not-tour of the facility.”

I nodded and ran the appropriate scan, and found that the door was, indeed, a functioning one — in frequent use, in fact. It led to a stairwell.

“So there’s a lower level to this facility not mentioned in the blueprints,” Roy mused. “Could very well be the site of the fabled shell company we’ve been looking for. Clever to keep it under a functioning business.”

“Luthor, like many psychotic criminal overlords, recognizes the benefits of conducting the shady parts of his business underground,” Jade said.

“ _Everything’s_ underground,” I said. “Looks like _Resident Evil_ drew all the specs for the Umbrella Corporation from real life, at least.”

“Well, that’s where the term ‘below ground’ comes from, sis,” said Jade. “Rarely is a wicked deed done at sea level.”

After scoping the perimeter one more time, I gave M’gann the holographic computer, in case she’d need it and we weren’t able to join her in whatever place this strange door led to. She accepted it, phased through the barrier, and once she was inside, informed us that the door opened from the interior only by means of a passcode. She was camouflaged, mostly invisible in her Martian variant of stealth mode.

“Look, M’gann,” I told her, “can you do a little probing?”

“I can,” she affirmed. 

“Use Dick’s computer to check for security systems.”

“Can do. Sit tight — I won’t be long. Or stand tight, I guess.”

A few minutes later, I heard her voice again. “There’s another locked door at the base of the stairs — I phased through that and it led to _more_ stairs.”

“That’s not suspicious or anything,” I quipped.

A mental chuckle. “And it just keeps getting darker and more foreboding the farther down I go. I’m going to keep going down until I strike something a little more solid,” M’gann informed us. 

“Oh, come now,” said Jade, “isn’t that what _she_ said?”

It took all of us, with the exception of Roy (who smirked immediately), a second to pick up on the fact that she was joking, and then there was another mental chuckle.

“I’m in,” said M’gann. “Whatever this part of the building is, it’s locked down for now — I’m assuming that business conducted down here isn’t run in traditional shifts.”

“Open on an as-needed basis, you think?” said Roy.

“It’s likely,” said M’gann. “Oh…” I _felt_ her thoughts trail off, and then she said, “Listen, guys… There’s definitely something _really_ weird going on here.”

“What do you see?” asked Zatanna. “Can you send us an image?”

M’gann did.

All of us lost our breath.

Standing capsules, long, cylindrical, for then empty, in endless rows in an equally endless room. Some tubes were smaller, others were as tall as the vaulted ceiling of the room in which M’gann stood. Not one was labeled, and none had any distinguishing features apart from size. Given the room was dimly lit, it was difficult to tell if there was anything else inside it, apart from these odd capsules, a morbid Dwarrowdelf of clear, vacant tubes. 

“Well, it’s not the evidence of cryonics we were looking for,” I said, “but if that doesn’t look like ample metahuman storage space, grow me a beard and dye my hair black and call me Jon Snow. Because if not, I know nothing.”

The others murmured their accord through the link.

It wasn't solid — not yet. And it wasn’t the metahuman we sought, that made this whole thing a little more personal. But it was something — finally.

We were getting somewhere.

  
  
  



	19. 11-20-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's poppin', y'all... <3 
> 
> Going to continue the trend of updating a little early... Might even update twice this week. I'm antsy to get the plot ball rolling, not going to lie. Apparently, patience isn't one of my virtues! XD <3 
> 
> This is a fluffy one, but a big one. :D <3 I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks, daisymagick, for being your lovely self and for the beta work! <3 ^_^
> 
> Much love, all. <3 Happy reading!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_November 20, 2019_

  
  


_Dick,_

_So pregnancy can comfortably be characterized by lots of ultrasounds, packets of things to read, reminders to always READ said packets (since it was my failure to read the one the campus doctor gave me around Halloween last year, when I had my sinus infection and it stated in clear language that antibiotics destroyed the efficacy of birth control pills… heh, whoops, my bad), plans made, phone calls, long conversations, nerves, excitement, a laundry list of things you can’t do and foods you can’t eat, and the occasional realization as time goes on that “Oh, hey, that bun is ALIVE in that oven.”_

_That particular feeling, you told me, REALLY hit you twice — once during the 22-week ultrasound, and the other when we went to go see that lame horror movie full of jumpscares when I was like, four seconds from popping and one of those obnoxious orchestral hits startled not only me, but the baby, too, and cued a lot of wild flopping. I giggled, and invited you to feel the frantic movements that shifted the surface of my belly._

“ _Holy Chestburster alien, Batman,” you said, and in spite of your comparison, you were overtly delighted, and kept your hand on my abdomen for the rest of the movie._

_The very first doctor’s appointment we went to just before leaving for Savannah. We had an ultrasound that day, which I didn’t really anticipate, since Jade had told me her doctor only gave her maybe three total, his demeanor kind of laissez-faire and “Call with Any Concerns.” Dr. Jeun, however, was very attentive and cautious, and performed ultrasounds at every appointment. It took me a while to get used to her “hyper-paranoia,” as I came to call it, but by maybe month seven, I came to freaking ADORE that woman. A good thing, too._

_I wasn’t sure what to expect from the ultrasound, since I’d only seen pictures from Raquel’s midpoint ultrasound, and one of Jade’s. Other than that, my only ultrasound experience was “As Seen on TV.”_

_You looked at the screen, studying the little gray, flickering peanut shape as it bobbed around against the black oval of the amniotic sack._

“ _Huh,” you said. “It looks like a chicken wing.”_

 _I busted a gut (sorry, Chicken Wing) and didn’t help matters when I helpfully contributed, “I was about to say I’m having a kidney bean!” through my giggles._

“ _Well, your kidney bean or chicken wing looks great,” said Dr. Jeun, also chuckling._

_Good old Dr. Jeun. She was probably the most adorable, bouncy, cheerful little lady I’d ever met in my life. She was gently accented and a little older, hypothetically apparent, given she’d aged like a fine wine. I liked her immediately upon her entry into the exam room, smiling brightly as she walked in, wearing a sparkly shirt and Ugg boots that looked like big boats on her bitty frame. She almost always wore her hair twisted into a lazy chignon with a pencil, I’m sure you remember._

_Sitting in the exam room, she pointed out a play of numbers across the ultrasound monitor, just under where the lima bean/chicken wing floated on the screen. “That’s the heart rate, here…”_

“ _Sounds kind of like sonar pings,” you observed. Your hand, grasping mine, vibrated a little, mirroring the excitement in your gorgeous blue eyes. “Really fast sonar pings.”_

_Dr. Jeun laughed. “A fast heartbeat can be expected, don’t worry, it looks good. Size is measuring just right for eight weeks — eight weeks and one day, to be exact.” She looked up at me, smiling under her wire-framed glasses. “Well, congratulations, Mom and Dad, you’re going to take this baby home — chances of miscarriage from eight weeks with a heart rate just ticking away like that are less than two percent.”_

“ _Speaking of that — when can we expect to take this chicken wing home?” you asked._

“ _Due date for you guys looks like July 29th,” Dr. Jeun replied._

“ _Ah, a Leo,” I said, and grinned at you. “You guys will get along famously.”_

 _As for the 20-week anatomy ultrasound, we were BUZZING with anticipation all that morning. Jittering with an overload of energy I couldn’t contain, I didn’t have a hope of focusing on breakfast, even if you made my favorite combo on the planet, unaltered in pregnancy (normally, coffee with cream and sugar would have gone with it, but at the time, I couldn’t even tolerate the smell of the stuff. I’m back on the sauce nowadays, though, and tenfold. The shame!) I was jittering just as much when we rolled into the medical center with the suped-up ultrasound machine, and only then, I noticed you totally were, too. We sat in the waiting room, about bubbling over with excitement like the annoying pair of schmaltzy, roseate parents-to-be we were. We’d learn the gender that day, but other than that, we’d be given a more definitive health report on Grayson Player Two._

_Honestly, we were both pretty ambivalent about the baby’s sex. “As long as it’s healthy, I don’t care,” you’d said when I asked if you were hoping for one or the other. I shared in that feeling, although I always thought I wanted a boy. Wally and I talked plenty about hypothetical future offspring, and he’d agreed a boy would be nice, but mentioned he also wouldn’t have been disappointed if we were to have nothing but reams of girls. He even liked the idea of twins._

_Actually FACED with having a child, I found I just wanted a healthy, happy baby — didn’t matter what the sex was._

_When the moment came, you held my hand, and squeezed it as we waited for the verdict._

“ _Well, guys, this is a girl if I’ve ever seen one — you see these lines here?” said the technician, pointing out little squiggles in the ball of the abdomen. “These are how you tell. You’re going to have a daughter.”_

 _You freaking GRINNED so damn wide I’m shocked your face didn’t split in half._

“ _Well, Dickie,” I announced through my own enormous smile, “I’m going to church to light a candle in honor of your lazy Catholicism for this kid, because as we’ve already talked about, she’s doomed to a Pentecostal existence until the end of time.”_

“ _Oh, come on, I’m going to be a cool dad,” you maintained, giddy and humming with uncontained joy._

“ _Dick, you were a Mathlete at GA, you’re an impassioned computer nerd, you eat cereal for breakfast, lunch, AND dinner, your idea of a hopping Friday night is a Horizon Zero Dawn marathon, and you’re wearing a Gravity Falls shirt,” I pointed out._

_You pouted, apparently wounded._

“ _But… you were also in a Guess ad once,” I said, grinning and nudging your arm to let you know I was teasing._

“ _Well, by those lines of thinking… I’m at least going to be cool until the kid’s like, ten,” you protested, waving a hand._

_The technician and I both laughed._

“ _I’m kidding, babe,” I assured you. “You’re going to WIN at dad life. How do the cool kids put it? You’re going to KILL the game!”_

_You grinned down at me. “I hope so. And I don’t even need to tell you you’re not only going to conquer at mom life, but totally kill the game, too.”_

“ _Well, not to steal your line,” I said, “but I hope so.”_

_You gave my hand a press. “You will.”_

_Ah, a mush. I freaking melted at the CERTAINTY in your voice._

_As we headed home, I asked about any names you were considering, although I already had a very strong idea of what I wanted. I had no doubt it was what you wanted, too._

“ _Well, what names are you thinking?” you asked kindly, smiling at me._

“ _Well, it’s a girl…” I said, “so I was thinking Mary. For your mother.”_

_You were quiet for a long, long moment, and then reached over, and took my hand._

“ _You sure?” you asked._

_I nodded. “Dick, I just wish I could have met her.”_

_You braked for a red light._

“ _Me, too,” you said, your voice quiet. You focused on the dashboard._

_I squeezed your fingers. “So Mary it is?”_

_You leaned over and kissed me. “Artemis… Thank you. Really. I mean it.” You paused. “Look… you’ve got free reign on the middle name, okay? Completely free reign. Even if it’s something like Dulcy or Gertrude.”_

_I grinned. “That’s fair, but would you believe me if I told you I genuinely like the name Mary?”_

_You said you would, and would I believe you if you said you would love it if Artemis were the middle name?_

_(I shot down that idea.)_

_And with all that settled, I applied myself to coming up with a reasonable middle name — not as easy as coming up with the first. I flip-flopped on that endlessly and drove you nuts with my indecisiveness. It was every bit as bad as picking the godmother._

_In the end, though… I decided to honor my own mother. For her role in my life, her sacrifices, her support. It only felt right. And when I mentioned that to you, you were nothing short of totally enthusiastic — my mother had happily taken you on as her own, and even habitually referred to you as her son. You confided in me many times that you adored and appreciated her for it, her uninhibitedly becoming your active mom, full-time, no stipulations, no barriers. She cried once when you thanked her for letting you know what it was like to have a mom again, do you remember that? I do, because I totally teared up like a pitiful chump, too. Absolutely, she should be honored, you said._

_So… Grayson Player Two was set to be named Mary Paula._

_Mary Paula Grayson._

_I LOVE the sound of that. I could repeat our daughter’s name day in and day out. And… same with your name, if I’m going to be fully honest, unfiltered. Sometimes I do repeat the sounds of both, enjoying the cadence and feeling and modulation of them. The auditory manifestation of love and emotion, I guess. I never understood girls in school who would write the names of their crushes all over their notebooks, but I think I do now. There’s a lot in a name when there’s powerful feeling involved, isn’t there? You told me once you loved my name and would be happy to say it for the rest of your life. It didn’t occur to me until later that maybe this was due to more than just thinking it was cool or “unique” (oh, I hear that one like, ten times a day), but because it was the NAME of your feelings._

_Love you, Richard John Grayson…_

_Richard John Grayson. Richard John Grayson. Richard John Grayson. (With hearts all over.) Ha, ha. :P_

_More later, stud._

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  



	20. 5-15-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, all! <3
> 
> Happy Friday, y'all! Updating twice this week, specifically just to get the plot ball rolling, because I'm so freaking patient. XD *not*
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING  
> TRIGGER WARNING  
> TRIGGER WARNING
> 
> There is some uuuuuugly shit that not only transpires in this chapter, but is alluded to in extremely plain, graphic language. I certainly don't want to trigger anyone, so if there's anyone who would rather peek at a synopsis to avoid dealing with the squicky stuff, I'll be more than happy to attach a note to the end. <3 Just say the word. <3 I *think* I got all the tags put up, but if I missed one, let me know. <3
> 
> Even if this one is a little rough, I hope you guys enjoy it. I wrote it two and a half times and ran it by three different arbitrary sources before I was satisfied with it (insofar as I could be satisfied with such a miserable topic. *shivers*)
> 
> And... cue the beginning of the other shoe dropping... <3
> 
> All my love and thanks to daisymagick and The_Pop_Culturist for beta reading and brainstorming and being your lovely selves, and I would like to give my BFF a monumental shout-out for helping me execute the conversation between Dick and Lawrence FAR more effectively. <3 This chapter wouldn't be what it is without her intervention and guidance.
> 
> LASTLY, found an error... Deathstroke should have been Bane. I wrote this chapter before incorporating Deathstroke into ch 18 as a major player and forgot to fix it. It's been rectified. My bad!
> 
> MUCH LOVE, ALL!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF

_May 15, 2019_

  
  


_Dick_

  
  


My phone buzzed in my pocket just as I finished ordering my doppio espresso macchiato — which I fully intended to load with rock sugar, naturally — and a vanilla latte with an extra shot for my lady fair. I fumbled to check it after I paid for the coffee.

 _Yo,_ it read, from Artemis. _I’m at the boutique, already enamored of like fifty different cribs <3 ETA?_

I smiled. _Be there in a sec, just grabbing some shopping fuel in the form of Italian-French-American Instant Heart Attack over at Dino’s_ (I finished that off with a coffee emoji. Emojis are sexy.)

Speaking of Instant Heart Attack — I needed maybe ten more to chase the one I’d ordered, or an epinephrine shot (hell, maybe two.) I hadn’t slept in upwards of thirty-six hours, and was all but dearly departed on my feet, wandering the world like a half-reanimated somnambulist zombie. Artemis had endlessly chided me to at least indulge in a nap, but I never found the _opportunity_ to sleep — picking through and monitoring Lex-Corp’s network traffic alone was like a labor of Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up Mt. Everest just to watch it go bumping back down. It was all so powerfully encrypted and under such heavy protection that even _I_ was impressed. That aside, a tiff with Bane left me sore and battered, training with Black Canary much the same — not to mention Le Sexy Fun Time with Artemis, who, it turned out, really had an awe-inspiring appetite. She was even giving _my_ eternally horny ass a run for my money. Let’s just not talk about dealing with a strenuous security vulnerability within the BPD that had kept me buried in my monitors in my basement office in the new crib for some days prior, distracted from my night job, however precarious a position world security might have been in.

Oh, did I mention we had _just_ moved and were in the process of fixing up the house to our liking? I have one thing to say about that — HGTV is full of _shit,_ man.

But whatever — that’s what energy drinks and coffee are for.

I turned, intending to make my way over to the counter to wait on my coffee, and rammed smack into a concrete wall.

Okay, so it wasn’t a concrete wall, or a brick wall, or even just a wall in general — it was none other than the barrel of a chest belonging to Lawrence fucking Crock.

 _Shit,_ I thought passionately, muscles tensing, immediately going on the fight.

Once that Babinski reflex dissipated, and I remembered where we were and that we were both in civvies and that it was highly unlikely that he knew about my, you know, _night_ job, I subtly drew in a breath, forcing my body to untense. It was also pretty ill advised to seek blood for the delightful scene he pulled in December and even more ill advised to start up a rigorous interrogation about what he got up to most nights (cough, cough, kidnapping metas, cough cough) in broad daylight in a crowded coffeehouse. 

I played dumb instead. When we parted ways, I could suit up and go after him.

“Sorry,” I said with the superficially convivial tone reserved for strangers. When he didn’t move (and yes, I knew he wouldn’t), I attempted to sidestep him. He moved into my path. I lifted my hands and added, “Seriously, sir — my bad, totally an accident. Man of _your_ stature? Normally I’d keep my distance.”

As I went, again, to maneuver around him, he stepped, and once more blocked my path, this time with a laugh.

“You don’t know who I am, kid?” he said, cocking his head. His chest inflated beneath the plain cotton of his tee, his impressive shoulders squaring, his biceps popping under his short sleeves. 

“No, sir, I can’t say that I do,” I replied, shrugging. “Excuse me.”

“Now, don’t be so quick to run off,” he said. He gave me a smile that was somehow wolfish and feral — not in any way warm or pleasant. “I mean, wow — to think I came all the way here, to Gotham from the other side of the country, to track you down and introduce myself, and here you are. It’s fate, kid.” His false smile grew wider, and his back straightened, as though he were immensely proud. 

I frowned askance at him. I was _really_ laying the Daughter’s Doofus Boyfriend act on thick. It wouldn’t hurt to amplify his sense that he had the upper hand.

“I’m the grandfather of that baby you’ve got en route,” Crock explained, smarmy, affecting the eternal patience of a devout monastic. He extended a hand. “Larry Crock.”

 _Hairy Cock,_ I thought to myself, and had to swallow the urge to snicker. (Let it be known that I am well aware of the fact that I am in _no_ position to be making dick jokes.)

“Oh, yeah,” I said, grinning lightly, adopting a charming façade, giving him a deliberately _very_ firm handshake. “Dick Grayson. As you apparently know, your daughter’s boyfriend.”

“That’s right. Gotta tell ya — that’s a good grip, kid. You got some strong hands for a rich boy,” he said.

“I’m a gymnast. And I’ve taken on a Nguyen girl — I _need_ strong hands,” I explained easily, and enjoyed a brief second of triumph when Crock chuckled and nodded. I gestured at the increasingly impatient barista. “Coffee?”

He nodded, and I shifted aside while he ordered a large red eye.

“So,” I said, as the cashier rang up his order. “How’d you know it was me? Have to say, you really ought to partner up with the Dark Knight while you’re here in Gotham — I mean, you’ve got some pretty mad detective skills.”

Yes — I played to his ego, _ironically._ And padded the whole thing with a veiled insult. It wasn’t like I couldn’t see right through his superfluously good-natured, even jovial, demeanor, the choice of clothing he wore — worn jeans, a fitted athletic shirt, gym shoes, no obvious weaponry. Casual, non-threatening — all carefully selected to create the desired image. This wasn’t an effort to get to know his daughter’s civilian boyfriend and baby daddy — oh, no. I knew damn well why he was there, conveniently showing up at the coffee shop I just happened to be spending all of maybe five minutes in that rainy Wednesday afternoon. Of course it wasn’t by accident I’d rammed smack into his broad chest. He’d followed me, trailed my steps, and, at last catching me on my own, made his appearance not to introduce himself, but to _size me up_ — to weigh, measure, and _evaluate_ me. Assert his dominance, remind me that he was always hovering over both Artemis and me, as though he were some fucked up Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. He’d done the same thing with Wally, years before (that didn’t go over well. At all. Trust me on that.)

He smirked at me. “Well. Buttering up your girl’s burly dad — looks like you got some smarts to go with that strong grip.”

In response to that one, I smoothly forked the cash over for his coffee before he could, and gave him a dazzling smile. His brows lifted.

“I repeat,” he said. “Smart. You know, I could stand to be buttered up a little more — what else can I milk out of you?”

I left a ridiculously exorbitant tip in the jar, subtly, but so that Crock could see it. “The day is young yet, Grandfather of my Child. I can extend a little more goodwill your way.”

“Good, how about solidifying my high opinion with a Lamborghini, then?” said Lawrence. “Want to sit down?”

“Actually, Artemis is waiting on me… but if I can’t spare a Lamborghini, I guess I can spare a minute,” I said as I approached the service bar to accept my own order. I smiled at him. “In other words, sure, count me in.”

We sat at a table near the door — something I orchestrated. If he decided at any time he felt like poking the bird and instigating fisticuffs, I’d be able to at least shift the tussle outside without too much collateral damage (and while I was confident in my odds against the old-ass bastard — unconcerned, even — I couldn’t get into it with him, _really_ get into it with him, without potentially tipping my hand. It was wiser to charm the motherfucker so damn much he invited me out for a beer sometime.) I sipped at my coffee, and continued to amp up the Nice, But Dumb routine.

“So, Larry — can I call you Larry?” I said. “You came all the way to Gotham to introduce yourself?”

“Well, not just that,” he said with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I also came to check in on my daughter — you know, drop in and see how she’s doing, extend my congratulations and all that. I just happened to run into you here.”

I feigned bemused surprise. “Oh, wow — like you said, fate. You know, though, you never answered my question — how’d you know it was me?”

“Kid, you eat up the press like they’re a hot lunch,” said Lawrence. 

I grinned. “Well, you’ve got me there.”

“So tell me,” said Crock, eyeing me over the coffee he hadn’t yet touched. “How did you and my daughter meet?”

“Oh, we went to school together,” I replied.

“Stanford? Or that namby-pamby high school she got sentenced to?”

“Uh… the second one,” I said ruefully, always one to play the role of society kid apologist. “Had a shot at Stanford, but I wanted to stay close to my home base. I’m at Blüdhaven U right now.”

“Well, you could have afforded any school you felt like going to, unlike Artemis — you’re lucky your foster dad is who he is,” said Crock. He leaned toward me. “Plenty to mooch off of, there, I’d say. You were a carney kid before, weren’t you?”

I nodded, remaining nonchalant. “Until I was nine.”

“That’s right,” he said, sipping finally at his drink. “When your folks were murdered.”

I leaned back in my seat, my features carefully schooled. Well, he went right for the jugular, and without hesitating — although I really had _no_ idea to what end. I mean, to him, I was just some dumb kid who had knocked up his daughter — a society boy, sure, entitled and snooty, no doubt, but hardly a _serious_ threat to his territory or realm. This level of douchebaggery and probing would make sense if he was aware of my night job, but the way he comported himself indicated that he was completely unimpressed by me — disappointed, even. (Which, granted, was the idea — high-five, self!) So what the hell was the purpose behind trying to make me feel like an infinitesimal speck of crap, and so early on in the conversation, if he regarded me to be such an uninspiring plebe already?

Unless… he was genuinely just that astronomical an asshole. A possibility, but to be that enormous a chode, he’d almost have to be socially impaired. And while Larry certainly wasn’t the likes of Lex or Bruce or even myself, he was nothing if not cunning. Maybe he _did_ know who I was, or perhaps the fact that I was the father of his grandchild threatened him, after all — I _did_ hold some sway over his spirited, rebellious daughter as such. Certainly more than he did, to his vast chagrin, I was sure. And now… maybe he just _wanted_ me to believe that he was uninspired and clueless, and then he could exert his dominance however he saw fit.

Well, sorry, Charlie.

I opted for a one-word, unaffected response to his statement about my family. “Yep.”

“Well, at least you hit the jackpot afterward, right?” he said. “I mean, you’re a real Cinderfella story. Rags to riches, carney to debutante. Could have been a lot worse, you know?”

Again, I didn’t provide him any reaction. I lifted my coffee, ready to let him keep barreling full speed ahead and in so doing reveal the direction in which he was rushing. “Yep.” 

“Granted,” said Crock, “insofar as getting adopted by a totally neglectful playboy is hitting the jackpot. That had to be tough, huh, kid?”

“What do you mean?” I asked neutrally. _He rehearse this shit before he came rolling in?_ I wondered, subtly studying him.

“Well, a loaded perv with a weird fixation on circus boys in acrobat short-pants and pixie boots costumes takes you in… and then doesn’t even bother to hang out at home ninety-nine percent of the time. Must’ve been more than a bit lonely, growing up by yourself in that giant-ass, empty mansion.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions. I always found company,” I said mildly. 

He smirked — it was barely perceptible, but he smirked. “With the circus?” 

I could sense the underlying taunt in Crock’s voice, and yeah — he was getting under my skin a little by then.

“I kept performing with them after, yeah,” I said, sipping my coffee, keeping my mounting discord in check. 

“You know, I’m actually surprised you ever got back up on that trapeze,” said Crock. “After what happened.”

“I’m Irish-Romany,” I said with a shrug. “Tough stock.”

“I’m sure,” he said. “Look, kid. I don’t bring up all that shit with your foster dad to upset you or whatever. I just pick up on things. And that guy’s always in the papers — hamming it up for the cameras in those overpriced monkey suits of his with some gold-digging tramp on his arm. It just seems pretty damn stupid to adopt a kid and then just leave him alone in some giant-ass mansion all day to be raised by the hired help — like the whole stunt was just to try shaking that playboy rep he’s got with the media or some shit.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said, remaining overtly mellow.

“Sure, kid, sure. I just wonder what the hell kind of Pop-pop he’s going to make. And look, I know I’ve got room to talk — it’s not like I’m Dad of the Year or anything. I know damn well I haven’t been in the picture for a while. But that’s because Artemis doesn’t _want_ me in the picture.” He leaned toward me. “Can’t say I understand why — baby girl must think she’s too good for me now she’s come into some money and has a nice sugar daddy to take care of her, huh?”

“I’m sure Artemis has her reasons,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?”

I met his gaze, wiring my jaw, a little less inclined to tread carefully. 

“Yes,” I said.

“What’d she tell you?”

“I’d say she told me enough.”

Lawrence leaned toward me, his lip quirking in a not-smile. “Why don’t you fill me in on what she said, kid?” He straightened languidly. “You know there’s two sides to every story. I mean… You look like a pretty gigantic asshole to outside eyes, plowing your dead best friend’s fiancée. But… Let me guess. Just like with your perverted foster dad — ‘it isn’t like that.’”

 _That_ got the burner going — not going to lie. I figured he’d done at least _some_ research, but probing that deeply and bringing Wally into things? That shit crossed a serious line — this was a boundary that Artemis had drawn, too, and his skipping merrily across that border meant that he was out to raise hell with her as well as with me. 

I ground my teeth. _Good luck with that one, asshole._

I subtly inhaled, exhaled a count to five, and sipped my coffee. _Keep calm, Boy Wonder, and maneuver on._

“That’s right,” I said evenly. “It isn’t.” I paused. “And FYI, he’s listed as missing — not dead.”

“You sure he’s not dead?” Crock smirked. “He’s _presumed_ dead, last I checked. And a couple of years isn’t that long in the scheme of things. I mean… You just couldn’t wait, could you? You were just kind of biding your time in the Friendzone, waiting for your cock-blocking pal to croak, sticking out the required grieving period… and then, first chance you got, you made your move. Played the sympathetic friend card, I’m sure, the whole ‘ _I share your grief’_ ace in the hole — and then you knocked your little target off her guard. Got her shitfaced, no doubt, and then you put a baby in her. And now… hell, it won’t matter if the poor bastard comes back. She’s yours for good. Because you _know_ her. She’ll take responsibility for that kid and do what’s supposedly best by it, and all that do-gooder supermom crap aside? When she commits, she doesn’t do it halfway.”

It took every whit of restraint not to reach across the small space between us and slam his face into the surface of the table. 

“Got to give you credit, kid,” Crock went on smugly. “That’s some first-class manipulation right there. One more question. Did _you_ do your friend in? Where’d ya hide the body? I won’t tell. Promise.”

“Well, to be honest with you, sir, I’m not really one for homicide,” I said, “and I’m not one to betray my friends, either. Or treat my girlfriends like they’re items to score.”

“You say that, and yet you’ve had a lot of girlfriends over the years,” said Crock. “A _lot_ of girlfriends. I’m actually impressed.”

I internally cursed the fact that as something of a public figure, my Instagram account had always been unlocked. He probably knew about every single girl I ever dated — I wouldn’t even put it past him to be aware of the one time Bette Kane birthday fucked me. Meaning — no one was safe from this piece of shit. 

Also — Christ on a cotton candy cloud, he was going after every single sore spot he could land a hit on, and _relentlessly._ Wally’s encounter with Crock had played out entirely differently — but that was because Wally hadn’t played ball. He’d just gone right into it with the asshole the second he showed up in Palo Alto. Artemis had been forced to step between them to dissipate the would-be brawl, which would have instantly compromised Wally’s identity as a metahuman. She’d later screamed herself hoarse at him for letting it get to that point and risking himself so heedlessly. (She was so pissed off that he’d actually called Raquel and me for help. Unfortunately for him, we sided with Artemis.)

Well, unlike Wally, this was the route I chose — playing ball. If this fucker was going to use this conversation to try unearthing all the dirt he could work with on me for God knows why, he was barking up the wrong tree. I’d give him _nothing._

I gave him a half-smile, the maelstrom within relegated to a storm neatly tucked within a tupperware container, and shrugged. “Capricious youth. I was a bit of a late bloomer — I admit I flew high on things a bit when I first came into my own.”

“You’re not that old, kid,” Crock said. “You’re _still_ in your youth. Indulge me some idle curiosity — you fucking any of those girls as we speak while the land whale hangs out oblivious at home with your baby?”

“If I was,” I said meekly, “I would think it extremely ill-advised to admit as much to my pregnant girlfriend’s burly dad.”

Crock actually burst out laughing. 

“Yes, it would be,” he said. “ _Beyond_ extremely ill-advised.”

“To answer your question, though… no,” I said. “I’m not fucking any of those other girls. And I won’t be. They’re all ancient history.”

“Which is why they’re all still in your Instagram photos.”

I wormed a lip, barely able to produce a smile. “I stay friendly with my exes.”

“Bodes well for my daughter, then,” said Lawrence. 

“You know, sir,” I said mildly, “I understand she’s your daughter, but you said yourself you’re not really in the picture. Why are you here telling me all of this?”

The atmosphere _really_ shifted in that moment. Crock’s demeanor went from that of jovially mean-spirited to flat-out predatory.

“I want you to know who you’re dealing with — _really_ dealing with,” Lawrence growled, leaning toward me. “I don’t like your holier than thou shit. And I don’t like your silver spoon entitlement shit, either. I don’t want you extending that crap my daughter’s way. You loaded, sanctimonious socialites — I don’t like you people. My daughter’s not some goddamn Disney princess, kid. Do you even know who she is, what she’s capable of?”

That did it. I was done making nice and keeping up this stupid charade. I was tired, I had other shit to do, I had zero patience, and he was _really_ pissing me off. Which was what he wanted, I knew, but I really didn’t care any longer. He wanted to play _this_ particular game — oh, I’d fucking play. 

“She’s capable of making her own choices as a grown woman, last I checked,” I said, allowing a little steel to enter my voice, fighting to remain tolerably calm on the surface. It was all I could do not to dive across the table and turn his face into a Picasso painting.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, kid,” Crock said. “That brat of yours is a girl, don’t think I didn’t look that far into it. You’ll see things my way someday, when that precious daughter of yours is knocked up with some entitled yuppie shithead’s bastard child. You’d rather see her _dead_ than wed and that hellspawn of a grandkid a dumpster baby.”

I clenched my teeth, then my grip around the coffee cup, then the fist of my free hand. 

“You know, Crock,” I said, “Artemis almost never talks about you. I used to wonder why your name was such forbidden territory — I’m definitely starting to understand why now.”

He chuckled emptily and leered at me. “And what name was that, kid?”

 _There it is,_ I thought, satisfied. _Gauntlet down._

“She had a couple of names for you, actually,” I said. “Asshole, bastard. Shithead. And one more — a little higher profile.”

He gave me an expression somewhere between a smile and a sneer (a snile? A smeer?) “You don’t say. Which one?”

“You tell me,” I said, completely dumping the Nice, But Dumb routine, leveling on him a glare that might have killed a plant. “I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you.”

“So you _do_ know who I am,” said Lawrence, his lip twisting. 

“Yeah,” I said, my voice lowering to a growl. “I know who you are. And I know Artemis — what she’s ‘capable of.’ I also know she dared to be something different than what you wanted her to be — and you can’t _stand_ that, can you?”

“Well, I’ll be damned, then,” Lawrence said, settling in his seat. “You _do_ know me… and you think you’ve been playing me this whole time.”

“Haven’t I?” I said cordially.

“I’ll admit you had me going for a few minutes,” said Crock. “Damn straight, you’re a performer. Not a half-bad one, either.”

My own lip curled. “Thanks. The skill comes in handy on occasion.”

“You’ve dropped the act now, though, I see,” said Lawrence. “Might as well talk candidly with one another, then. Man to man. What’s your next play, _Dick?_ You going to call the cops?”

“Not exactly,” I said, smiling with chilly pleasantry, my tone loaded. 

Ha. That did it. Crock leaned toward me, all niceties evaporating on the spot. 

“Yeah?” he snarled. “Try it. See what happens.”

My icy not-smile widened. “You know, the last person who said that to me? His name was Tony Zucco. Tony _Fats_ Zucco. I was nine years old. Fats is rotting in a jail cell, sharing a _very_ special bond with Bubba, right now, as we speak.”

He chuffed a mirthless laugh. “Hardly your doing, last I checked.”

“Where’d you check?”

Crock again laughed, only this time, there was genuine humor in it. “Kid, you are something else.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I _am_ something else.” I leaned back in my seat. “So… threaten me or mine?” I smirked, and inclined my head. “Try it. See what happens.”

“You _know_ who I am,” Crock said, his tone somewhere between impressed and foreboding. “You either got balls the size of two planets in those Superman panties or a brain the size of a fucking raisin in that pretty skull, talking like that.”

“I wouldn’t advise you to test those theories,” I said easily.

“Wise,” Crock replied. “You’d be nursing a goddamn coma in the ICU before you could blink if you did.”

“Speaking of threats,” I said. “Mentioning sending me to the ICU definitely sounds like one.” I smiled resplendently, tilting my head. “You’re always welcome to give it a shot, but I can’t promise you the desired results.” I leaned toward him, and although my smile never dissipated, my voice went cold enough to leave skins of ice on the cups of hot coffee between us. “I’m a fucking _Wayne_ beneficiary, Lawrence. You think I haven’t been threatened, or blackmailed, or had big, ’roided out cocksmokes like yourself try to bully me?” I paused, and casually receded, sprawling comfortably on my chair. “Trust me. Bigger, scarier men than you have tried. _Many_ times.”

“Like I said,” Lawrence murmured, an eerie gleam entering his eyes. “Ballsy or stupid. Or both.”

I was about to say “both,” when I caught sight of Artemis, entering the cafe, her father’s back to her. She halted in her steps and went completely rigid when she noticed him sitting across from me, and then, her jaw wired and her eyes sparking like an active volcano, she marched over to the table. 

“Dad,” she hissed, shaking visibly, clearly furious and not bothering to hide it, “what the _hell_ is this? What are you doing here?”

Lawrence _grinned._

He grinned — and looked completely satisfied, as though everything was fully right with the world.

And then, he abruptly rose, and said, “Come on, now, baby girl, I’m just introducing myself and being friendly. Wanted to meet the father of my grandchild and say congratulations to you both. Lo and behold, I just happened to run into the boyfriend here.”

“Is that so,” she growled, her voice sizzling. She crossed her arms over her chest, emphasizing her pregnant belly beneath the gingham maternity dress she wore.

“Of course,” said Crock. “New house, baby on the way, no doubt you’ll tie the knot eventually — there’s a lot to congratulate here, isn’t there?”

“Sure. Thanks, ” Artemis snapped hotly. Her arms lowered, and she gestured. “Run along.”

He mock-bowed, leered triumphantly at me for a moment, and then swept out of the shop, devil-may-care and as though he had nary a care in the world.

Artemis watched him leave, her jaw grinding, the muscles in her arms working. Her nostrils flared under her drawn brows. 

I just sat there, watching Sportsmaster leave. 

“What,” I said, completely bewildered, “was _that_ about?”

  
  


*******

  
  


Later, we lay on the couch in the living room of our new house, Princess between us. Some boxes still needed unpacked and rested in corners, two walls remained unpainted, and pictures leaned against the wall, needing hung up. Still, even half-decorated, the place was cozy as all get out — I’d miss my apartment, to be sure, but this was, as I told Artemis, _way_ better.

Artemis was tense, completely on a hair trigger, irritable and edgy since running into Sportsmaster at Dino’s. I understood her upset completely, and shared it. That the League hadn’t been able to nail the asshole when I blew the whistle on him and that I myself hadn’t been able to catch him on the flip, either, after bolting out of Dino’s to suit up rankled.

“There had to be some reason Dad was here,” Artemis was saying. “Beyond asserting his dominance, I mean. Wally sent him packing, but pretty much empty-handed — like… Dad just kind of shoved off like it was no skin off his back either way, and he was just happy to have gotten a rise out of baby girl’s doofus boyfriend. In this case… From what you told me, you didn’t back down, either, but Dad looked… I mean, he looked —”

“Like a cat that got away with a gallon of cream?” I supplied.

“Yes,” Artemis said fervently. “Dick, what did you tell him?”

I shook my head. “Arty, I didn’t give him anything of merit, I promise. I have _no_ idea what I would have said that made him look like he won the Powerball.”

“Dick, you had to have given him _something_ that sent him off flying high like that,” Artemis snapped, sitting up, accusatory venom laced in her words. 

I lifted my hands, a little taken aback. She’d never even raised her voice at me hitherto, and here, she looked like a scorpion with its tail arched over its back. “If I did, Arty, it wasn’t intentional. Trust me. Everything he might have used against me, he totally already knew going in. Look —”

“You can’t just run off at the mouth with my dad, Dick,” she hissed. “He’ll take everything he can use against you and do just that. He’ll _use_ it, in any way he can. Don’t think he won’t go for every cock shot and low blow he can land, because he _will —_ every damn time. Do you even _understand_ what he’s capable of? Like, _really_ capable of? I mean, you have this tendency to just sort of assume people aren’t as bad as all that, no matter what they’ve done or how _terrible_ they actually are —”

“You might want to rethink what you’re going to say on that subject before you say it,” I said, a warning heat entering my own voice. “Don’t forget, I lost my entire family to murder _and_ my brother was beaten to death. Not to mention, I deal with psychotic criminal overlords day in and day out, both in cyberspace _and_ in real life. I think I know pretty damn well what people are capable of.” 

“God damn it, Dick, I know that,” Artemis snarled, her face flushing furiously in the lamplight. “You just seem to continually forget that it was _people_ — and in some cases people monumentally less skeevy than my own _father_ — who orchestrated all that shit you’ve seen.”

I was about to jump down her throat, but instead, I took a breath, and _forced_ myself to stay calm. Regardless of signing up for a world of hurt if I poked the bear with that particular stick, I _really_ didn’t want to kindle a serious fight with my girlfriend, especially since on some level I knew that she was merely stressed and frightened — lashing out in her fear, responding to her distress by ventilating it. It wasn’t fair to return what I knew to be misplaced aggression and throw gas on a fire that was threatening to grow and worsen the situation.

“Sorry, Arty,” I said, exhaling. I held a hand out to her. “Look, I don’t mean to downplay anything here, okay?”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” she ceded, heaving a sigh. “That was a totally bitchy thing for me to say. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m just —” She made a frustrated noise. “Dick, I’m scared. I’m _really_ scared.” She pressed her face into her open hands, lowered them. “There. I said it.”

“Look,” I said, taking her hand. “I promise you, I take your dad seriously. I do.”

“Do you really?” she asked. “Do you _really_ know what he’s capable of? What a _monster_ he can be?”

I sat up, and handed Princess to Artemis so I could more comfortably shift closer to her. She took the cat, visibly softening as Princess settled atop her belly. I ran a hand over her hair.

“Only from what I’ve seen,” I said, “and from looking at his rap sheet. And what you’ve mentioned to me here and there. Not forgetting his cute performance at Dino’s, either.”

She shook her head. “Dick, you have _no_ idea.”

“Well… Give me an idea, then, babe,” I told her gently. “I mean, I thought I had a decent idea already, but…”

She eyed me. “You’re not even close. Trust me. Listen, he… This isn’t…” She ground her fingers into her forehead. “Okay. Dick — these aren’t things I like to talk about much.”

I ran a hand over her arm. “You sure you want to talk about it now?”

She was quiet a moment, and then sighed.

“I think so,” she murmured. “You sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. 

“I haven’t… told any of this to anyone, Dick. Not Jade, not my mom, not Dinah, not Zatanna or M’gann, not even Wally.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m actually thinking of telling you now.”

“You don’t have to,” I said, one one hand burning to know, on the other afraid to.

She looked over at me. “I don’t know. Maybe… Maybe it’ll make me feel better to finally _talk_ about it to someone.”

“Well,” I said, my voice low, soft, “I’m listening.”

“You’ve heard about my dad’s stellar runs for Father of the Year as I was growing up, right?”

I nodded. “I have an idea of the basic picture. Specifics, though, I’ve only gotten in passing, but I’ve heard enough to know it was bad.”

“What did you hear, outside of things I’ve told you?”

“Well, Bruce told me that Sportsmaster entered you into Roulette’s fighting ring when you were twelve.”

“He mention that he entered me in and then took my weapons from me just before I went in?”

I shook my head. 

“Well, he did.”

“…God. Wildcat, Green Arrow and Black Canary raided the circuit that night, though, didn’t they?”

She nodded, and to my surprise, half-smiled. “Yeah. First time I came to their attention, actually.” She sighed. “Dad nabbed me and got away, though. Anything else you’ve heard?”

“Well… I’ve heard that he bound your hands behind your back and left you in a Yakuza outpost, that he dumped you with no food or gear by the Congo for a week, trapped you underwater for over two minutes…” I broke off. “And more, but talking about it gets me pretty pissed off, so I’m just going to stop there.” 

She laced her fingers in mine, and I gripped her hand, feeling her hold as it shook.

“That all happened,” she confirmed. “And…” She paused, and looked up at the ceiling. “Dick, Dad’s never done anything like… _inappropriate_ to me. Like he’s never _touched_ me, or forced himself, or…” She trailed off, apparently gathering her thoughts, her gaze now turned to the floor. Her brows knitted.

I listened, baited, wordless, wondering and _fearful_ of where this was going.

“So… There was a crime boss, a pretty high-level mafia don who was… kind of a big deal back when we were kids. He actually had ties to Zucco, from what I’ve heard — the name Melko ring a bell?”

I nodded. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of Melko. He’s long dead, though, right?”

“Yeah. I thought you might have heard of him. Anyway… Dad did a lot of jobs for him when I was young, after my mom went to prison. All types, too — theft, kidnapping, hits, protection, so on. He got me involved in them pretty often, never mind that I wasn’t even eleven yet. Jade was _long_ gone by then — and if you could hear her talk about Melko, I’m surprised she didn’t track the guy down and just obliterate him the first chance she got.”

I leaned toward her as her grip on my hand tightened. 

“So… Melko commissioned my dad for some job overseas, and honestly, I don’t really remember the all the details behind it at this point, just that it got bloody _really_ quick. Dad got the target down, and he wanted me to deal the final blow. My first kill.”

I waited out the pause, not removing my eyes from her.

“I couldn’t do it, Dick,” she said. Her voice was a low, scarcely audible hum. “I just couldn’t. The man was sitting down to dinner when we barged in on him, for Christ’s sake — and I don’t know where his family was, but he definitely had one. There were toys all over the living room. Anyway… he looked at me, and then at my dad, and started begging. Brought up his wife and kids, and said my dad had to understand, having a child himself, and to please spare his family. I dropped my weapon, and then Sportsmaster pushed me aside and crushed that man’s head under his flail.” 

I felt sick. “You saw this?”

“Yeah, I saw it. Lawrence ‘Crusher’ Crock. Think _Walking Dead_ or _Game of Thrones_ were bad? Reality is _way, way_ worse.” She visibly shivered. “I just — his eye — it _burst_ right out of his head —”

She broke off. I tightened my hold on her hand.

“Then Dad turned on me, and grabbed my arm and yanked me out of there. He didn’t even _speak_ to me — normally, he’d have been screaming in my face about failing like that, like spit and insults just flying all over the place. But the silence was… it was actually scarier than any yelling would have been.”

I didn’t speak, just kept listening.

“So Melko… I don’t know if you know this, but he had some notoriously very bad, very dirty, very squicky habits. Unlike Dad, Melko _loved_ non-con — sought it, got off on it… but he didn’t love it _nearly_ as much as he loved underage girls.”

“Oh, no,” I breathed, already getting a very clear, _very_ repulsive idea of where this was going.

She inhaled, and nodded. “I was right at the age Melko favored. Ten. And… I was Asian. Blonde. Fiery, resistant. In other words… I was everything that piece of shit liked, every trait just rolled up into one package.”

I _felt_ my blood go from simmer to boil right about then. The heat moved into my face even as my heart kicked in my chest. 

“Dad didn’t really indicate what was going on,” Artemis said. “I mean… He didn’t even bring up the fact that I didn’t kill that goon at his house, he just had me take a scorching hot bath and put on perfume and get all dressed up.”

“Really.” When I spoke, my voice was a growl, incinerating my throat. The word rolled out of my mouth, a flat, burning statement more than a question or request for verification.

“Yeah. He said we were going to a ‘fancy dinner with his boss.’ And… we _did,_ like we did have dinner with Melko that night, and he gave me all sorts of stuff, like food and candy and treats and toys. He also had me drinking lychee wine at dinner.”

“And you were _ten?”_

She nodded. “So I was… definitely a little drunk by the end of the night. Not plastered or anything, just… kind of woozy and lightheaded, not really sure what I was feeling. I remember thinking… about how kind Melko was to me. And how unusually nice my dad was being.”

I was silent. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“So… the end of the night rolled around, and Dad just told Melko, ‘She’s all yours.’ I had no idea what that meant, or what was happening when Melko took me to his house in this ridiculously posh, endless limo. Without my dad.”

I remained unspeaking, every nerve afire, my chest hotter than a dragon’s mouth. 

“Melko brought me upstairs. Shut the door to what I think was the guest room, I don’t know, it was pretty pristine and had an enormous bed in the middle. I thought he was… putting me to bed, since I felt dizzy from the wine, and that Dad was on a job he no longer trusted me with. That… he felt badly for trying to make me do something I didn’t want to, so he decided _not_ to leave me alone for the night, but to leave me with a man who had been nice to me while he got the job done.”

She was quiet for a few minutes, and I just sat beside her, her hand in mine. I made no move to touch her beyond that, no move to speak, indicating that if she wanted to speak, she could, and if she didn’t want to, I didn’t expect her to. 

She spoke.

“I asked if I was supposed to go to bed, and Melko grabbed me by my hair and… _threw_ me down on the bed. Next thing I knew, he was all over me, tearing at my dress —”

My chest leapt and fell with my increasing heart rate. My brow furrowed as my throat burgeoned around the lump that swelled in my pharynx. 

“Jesus Christ, Artemis,” I said.

“He _attacked_ me, just — grabbing me, pulling at my clothes, pushing me down,” she said, tears spilling sudden and unheeded in rivulets down her face. “I had no _idea_ what was going on, what was happening, what he was doing,” she gestured wildly, “or _why._ I barely even knew what — _what that was_ before then, you know?”

“Did he…?” I eyed her, distraught, sick.

She said nothing for a moment, clutching Princess tight to her front with her free hand.

“Artemis, _did he?”_ My back laddered itself, going ramrod straight, my shoulders lifting and widening under my shirt. Whatever Artemis’ answer was — God fucking _help_ Sportsmaster when I found him. _And I would —_ there wasn’t a soul in the goddamn _universe_ that could have stopped me at that point _._ I’d completely _obliterate_ his sorry ass and _enjoy every second of it._

I backpedaled slightly when Artemis just shook her head, and wiped at her eyes, drawing in a breath and collecting herself. 

“No. No, he didn’t,” she said. “I fought with everything I had, Dick — teeth, nails, elbows, knees, _everything._ I even grabbed _pillows_ and hit him with them. I hit him with my shoes, I hit him with the tumbler I found on the nightstand, I tried swiping his belt so I could hit him with that.” She breathed in. “Grabbing at his belt… that’s when… that’s when I found his switchblade. Sticking out of the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.”

“What happened then?” I probed softly, taking both of her hands in mine. Princess rose, stretched, and hopped off.

“We fought over it,” she continued, watching the cat as she bounded away, “but my dad had trained me for that kind of thing, and he’d trained me _well._ And I was thinking only about _getting away_ — whatever that took. I ended up with the knife — and…” She abruptly yanked her hands away from mine and buried her face in her open palms. “ _I cut his throat._ I didn’t even _think,_ I just…” She trailed off, and lowered her hands. She gazed a ways off at the far window of the living room, as though the yard beyond held the answers to all of life’s questions, focused, intent, unyielding. She went on. “I reached out with the blade, how Dad had shown me, flat to my forearm, and I lashed out at his Adam’s apple, right-to-left, ear-to-ear. I didn’t do it to kill him — I _swear_ I didn’t do it to kill him — that part didn’t even occur to me, I just — I just wanted —”

I sat stock still, completely past words, atomized and heartbroken under the weight of this confession.

“Melko… was my first kill,” she continued, her voice quiet, her words issued slowly. “My _only_ kill. My dad came in, and… saw me there, covered in blood, the knife in my hand, and he didn’t even ask if I was okay, he just asked if Melko had gotten my skirt up.” She released the single most humorless, heartsick _not_ -laugh I’d ever heard. “I didn’t even know what the hell _that_ was supposed to mean, so I just kind of stared at him, until he _clarified_. Anyway… I told him no, and Dad looked at Melko’s body, and he looked at me, and then he said, ‘Well done, baby girl.’ Then… he walked over to me, and — Dick, he helped me up, and _put his arm around my shoulders_. Then he walked me outside, not letting go of me the entire time. He’d… never even _hugged_ me before — I mean, not unless I tried to hug him first.” 

She stared at the floor for a moment, not speaking, her hands shaking in mine. 

“…After that,” she went on after a time, “the Shadows picked us up and dropped us at a safehouse for a while. I don’t know if a hit was hired on Melko — he _did_ have a lot of enemies — and Dad orchestrated that to get the job done, or if the whole thing was all Sportsmaster, but… It took a while for it all to really _come together_ in my mind, like… for me to figure out the truth. My dad didn’t come to rescue me that night. He didn’t tell me ‘well done’ for protecting myself from a dangerous pervert.” Bitterly, she shook her head, and drew in a breath. “All I could think about was how _good_ it felt to hear a word of praise from my father.”

I reached over to her, and pulled her close as she sagged against my chest, dissolving. I held her like that a while, tight, drawing her as near to me as I physically could. I didn’t speak. There’s not a word on the planet, in the universe, in this life or the next for something like that. I just held her close, wordlessly communicating to her that I was _there,_ that it was _okay,_ that I had her back, that no matter what happened, I’d _always_ ride shotgun for her _._

“Please don’t tell the others,” she whispered after a time as her tears tapered. 

I shook my head, everything in my body _aching_ for her. “Never, babe. I won’t say a word. I promise.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to,” she murmured.

“I know you didn’t,” I said, stroking her back.

She pressed her face hard to my chest, gripping me hard about my torso. 

“Guess I’ll take my stuff and move back in with my mom,” she chuffed wryly into the folds of my shirt. “No one wants to live with a murderer, unintentional or not.”

“Arty, listen,” I said fiercely, drawing back, and laying my hands on her arms. “Even if you meant to? _You were attacked._ And by someone who was just a _totally_ disgusting pig. You can only loosely refer to that sack of shit as human.” I fought to keep calm, to remain soothing, stay there in the house with Artemis, and _not_ go all-in on tracking down Sportsmaster to make him swallow his own teeth. “And Christ, you were just a _kid._ Placed in that situation and given no way out, no other recourse, no _choice_ or agency. None of it was your fault — _none._ Okay? You are _not_ a murderer, intentional or unintentional or anything in between. Your father and Melko are the only killers, here.”

She inhaled, slowly, as though with great care, and miserably wiped a tear that struck her left cheek. “I guess.”

I reached over, and thumbed the remaining dampness from her skin. “Listen, Arty. I’ll never rejoice, hearing someone’s died. Granted, I won’t exactly be carrying a raincloud named Melko around with me everywhere I go, either. But the truth is… what I really regret is that _you_ had to go through what you did because of it.” I exhaled, heavily, full of regret. “I’m just so sorry that you’ve had to carry this, Artemis. And by _yourself_ for so long.”

She was quiet a moment, and then gave me a wan smile. “You know, Dick… it actually feels better to have talked about it. Like I just dropped something that I didn’t realize was so _heavy_ until now.” She sniffed, and swiped at her nose. “I actually… kind of feel free.”

I stroked her hair, and returned her smile. “Listen, babe, I know I’ve told you before that no matter what it is, you can tell me anything. _Anything._ Including things like this. You can always, _always_ lay it on me. I mean it.”

She extended both arms and went in for a bone-crushing hug. “Thank you.”

I kissed the top of her hair, unable to repress a smile when I discovered I couldn’t breathe comfortably under her suffocating clutch.

After a time, she sighed, and pulled away, and I drew in a relieving, unimpeded breath. 

“Dick… I just don’t know if I can relax, knowing my dad’s out there now and that he’s _personally_ connected to these weird disappearances and thefts,” she said unhappily. “That fat paycheck and Luthor’s protection are only going to make him get ballsier. I mean, he had _no_ compunction about sidelining you — Bruce Wayne’s famous golden boy — in public and making a bunch of threats. That’s some serious shooting from the hip, even for him. I mean, to him, Wally was just some Charlie Nobody from a one-horse town in Missouri — it wasn’t as, like… _public_ to come along and start taking digs at him. But picking a fight with you, Gotham’s darling and everyone’s favorite carney kid, and doing that in plain sight… I don’t know, it’s pretty risky. He’s getting _bolder_ now. And he was so… _satisfied_ when he left Dino’s earlier, I just can’t help but think…” The color rose in her cheeks, and her hands, fisting the folds of her gingham dress, shook as her tears started anew. “God, Dick, he’s probably planning to _kill_ you —”

I took her face in my hands, her tears tracking under my palms. 

“Listen to me,” I said firmly. “He can try. In fact, _let_ him try.”

She gave me a grim look. “You say that now.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I say that now. And I’ve said it before. _And_ I’ll say it again — bring it, asshole. I’ll mop the fucking floor with that prehistoric shithead.”

She smiled, abdicating, her shoulders loosening. “Okay, probably.”

I ran a hand over her hair. “And frankly, I’ll _enjoy_ doing it. More than is remotely morally upright and definitely way more than I should as a role model to the kids of today.” She huffed a weak chuckle. “Anyway, listen, Arty — all our respected Hairy Cock accomplished with that charming display earlier was to dig his own grave. And the way things are going… he’s got one foot in it and the other on a banana peel. A _wet_ banana peel.” I paused, and lit on something. I stroked her cheek with my thumb, and smiled, busting out my best Sandor Clegane impression. “You don’t need to fear that one, girl. Paint stripes on a toad, he does not become a tiger.”

She brightened, and laughed. I grinned, and kissed her, grateful to see her spirits rise. She pressed her forehead to mine for a moment, and then drew away.

“You know,” she said, sobering, “baby’s almost due, and honestly… she can’t get here fast enough at this point. I’d _really_ like to be the one to shove his ass face first into that grave and I can’t do that when I’ve got this big gut in my way.” She sighed, and shook her head. “I’m so tired of this.”

“I know you are,” I said. “But listen. You’ll get to, and you will. Be that by punching him into a cell or landing him there by your testimony, with or without my help, you’ll get to. His time’s coming.”

She nodded, her eyes darkening. “God, I hope so.”

  
  
  



	21. 11-29-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all! <3
> 
> I seem to like posting on Tuesdays... I've started a trend, I guess I'll stick with it! XD
> 
> Thank you thank you daisymagick for beta reading! <3 
> 
> Can't believe this is the second to last letter... O_O MOVING RIGHT ALONG (finally!)
> 
> Much love, all! 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_November 29, 2019_

  
  


_Dick,_

  
  


_So after my first day of school at Gotham Academy, it became pretty painfully clear to me that I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb that I mentioned a time or two as we moved into “The Highlands.” (Ah ha ha ha ha… ha. Oh, boy.) It wasn’t necessarily… bad? But I definitely felt worlds, parsecs, freaking UNIVERSES away from my classmates. Our experiences were just so… They were just vastly different. (Well, duh. I know I’ve mentioned it before.) But usually I just sat there while everyone talked about their lives, kind of feeling like the clueless kid in the back of the class who forgot her homework and just prays the teacher doesn’t call on her, hoping no one would turn to me and expect me to share. I’ve danced a couple of jigs with some A list supervillains in my day and performed in front of a huge audience (oh, and I grew up under the same roof as Sportsmaster… let’s not leave that out!), but that first week at GA was the MOST HARROWING experience I’ve ever overcome._

_The truth is, while I could weather every insulting comment from some villain or another and every literal blow from my father, Gotham Academy’s culture was kind of my Kryptonite (pardon the comparison.) I went home from school most days damn near in tears, screaming with frustration over the feeling that I just didn’t belong there, missing my friends at Gotham North and getting all pissed that I was relegated mostly to lame Facebook and Twitter exchanges with them because of my new course load on top of team duties and missions. I was totally embarrassed by the fact that the shoes I wore were thrifted and seamed together from the insides with spare bow wire (not to mention, thrifted or not, they weren’t exactly designer brand shoes.)_

_Slightly off-topic, but on the subject of shoes, do you remember when you and Wally and Zatanna got me my first pairs of REAL Chuck Taylors for my birthday one year? You planned it together, knowing how BADLY I wanted a pair of Converse but couldn’t afford them, and each of you got me a pair, different colors — black, green, yellow. I still wear all three pairs on the reg. You guys… Man, you’re just the best._

_Anyway, this was an undertaking that felt more arduous than waking up with my hands tied behind my back in a mob outpost in Japan would have (as you know, been there, done it. Braving Gotham Academy was harder.) But… There were pieces of human armor available to me. Actual meat shields from the snickers and sneers._

_Bette, for one, was always super sweet to me — and genuinely enough. Like she seemed legitimately interested in getting to know me and somewhat be pals outside of school. I didn’t get to know her all that well, given how little free time I had outside of school, but I got to know her well ENOUGH, and saw enough from her that I truly appreciated her._

_I’m sure you remember your fourteenth birthday party, when Bette, Barb and I all crashed it like “OHAI WE GONNA DROP FROM THE CEILING ON YOUR PARTY, RICHEST KID AT GA!” (Okay, we didn’t crash it, but we showed up.) I think I realized there was more of a goofball and kind soul in Bette than a society girl/snob that night on our way to the manor, when I asked WHY we were going to little Dickie Grayson’s birthday party when she teased him relentlessly. (That you boned her five years later to the day… HA.)_

_She grinned at me, and turned up the sound system in her Lexus. Madonna’s “Material Girl.” I’m sure that was no accident. :P She sang raucously with the chorus, encouraging Barbara and me to join._

“ _Because,” she said when she was done, “he’s the richest kid in school, remember? I also secretly think he’s totally adorable. Annoying, but adorable. But most importantly — he’s the RICHEST KID AT GA, ARTY. Don’t you want to see how the 1% lives?”_

_I just stared at her. “Aren’t YOU one of the 1%?”_

_She and Babs immediately howled with laughter._

“ _Man, nothing gets past you, does it?” Babs giggled. “Okay, how the .0074% lives.”_

“ _For real? Or is this to show ME, GA’s Ruthie Joad, how the 1% lives?” I asked, my dander going way up. “Like ‘let’s take the poor kid on a field trip to Wayne Manor!’ or something?”_

“ _Oh, no,” said Bette, looking scandalized. “Sweetie, not at all. The Wayne family is just really legendary — like I’ve only been inside certain limited parts of the manor for events and stuff. But this isn’t some charity thing, it’s just a birthday party for Dick and his friends. I’m just curious about the more… like, homey parts of the manor and… who Dickie boy is outside of school and what his non-GA friends are like. Plus, he and Babs are pals.”_

“ _Oh,” I said, sitting back._

_So… It turns out that Babs begged Bette to take her to your party, since both of her parents were working and she didn’t have her license yet, and she was SO hoping to hook up with you. (She went on to score seven seconds in the closet with none other than the birthday boy… You know, now I’m thinking on it, you HAVE gotten around. :P) Bette acquiesced, extended the ride offer my way, and we all went together. She was also kind enough to keep Babs’ hopes close to the vest._

_Bottom line, she was kind of a rarity, in that she gave me the time of day and extended consistent kindness and genuine acknowledgement my way. Most kids at GA just kind of passed me by, ignored me completely (unless they needed help with lit or foreign language homework… jerks), openly brutalized my cheap shoes, and… Yeah, there was one time someone used a racial slur on me. I decked that prick so hard he slammed into the lockers behind him (you caught wind of the incident and later went on to hack into his computer and send him to Meatspin every time he tried getting on a website, and checked in every so often to ensure that even changing his IP address wouldn’t save him. Wally was a little less subtle, zooming to Gotham to speed-egg/saran-wrap his car.) Side note… As I’m sure you recall, I got threatened with suspension or expulsion, but Bruce intervened and the dude got two week’s worth of detentions. (I might not be rich, but I’ve got connections.) But I was always grateful to Bette for being kind to me._

_Then, Barbara. She and I really had more in common than I might have anticipated at first — she was a year behind me, she was a cop’s daughter while I was the spawn of two notorious cons, she’d been in private schools for most of her natural life thanks to Bruce and his friendship with Commissioner Gordon, she was all math and computers on the surface while I was all literature and language arts. Things are not all they seem…_

_One afternoon, during a free period not long after your birthday, I shuffled into the library to do some research for a particularly intense project I had due. Babs happened to be in there, occupying the computer next to the only one that remained available. I sat by her with a greeting reserved for sorta friends and acquaintances you don’t especially mind. After a moment, I noticed that she had a copy of Jim Butcher’s Side Jobs._

“ _Did you get to Love Hurts yet?” I asked in a mindful whisper, referring to one of the vignettes inside, pointing at the book._

_She grinned, lighting up significantly._

“ _Not yet,” she said. “I’m on Backup.”_

_This launched an enthusiastic, hissing, barely under our breath discussion of the short story in question, which evolved into discussing gymnastics and martial arts, our wealthier connections and how we landed at Gotham Academy in spite of our collective humble roots, and then the bell rang._

“ _Dang,” she said, standing and shouldering her bag. “Well, what are you doing after school?”_

“ _Umm… Nothing important,” I fibbed, already deciding that I was going to blow off training with Black Canary. To quote a film we both know and love, Dick… I was in no position to pass up friends._

“ _Do you want to go to Dino’s and hang out for a while?” she asked._

_I fretted a little. “Uh… I actually didn’t bring my wallet with me.” (Another lie. I was just broker than the Ten Commandments.)_

“ _Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I have a gift card that I haven’t used. We can total it out together.”_

_Satisfied and THRILLED that I at last made a new pal at GA, I called Dinah and said I was feeling under the weather, went to Dino’s with Barbara, and that, as they say, was that._

_And then… Drumroll, please…_

_Okay, we know where this is going. Cut the crap, Arty, for reals. :P_

_YOU!!!_

_Honestly, apart from those midnight pizza seminars wherein you explicated the greater details of my calc homework (the bane of my existence and eternally my only A-) and I quizzed you on your Mandarin verbs and my brain fucked off the moment you got into the minutiae of network security God-knew-what (oftentimes with Wally blowing something up with his grown-up chemistry set alongside us), there's a memory that sticks out like a lighthouse beacon in my mind… and really sums up what our buddyship was comprised of._

_It was maybe a week after that godawful botched mission that I royally screwed up, that Wally got in my face over — remember that whole debacle? The whole thing left me feeling like a totally lost little girl. I could bear the occasional failure. I could deal with Roy verbally eviscerating me. I could forgive myself the flub-up, given it was my sister, and in spite of the eight million elements of drama there, I loved/love her._

_What I couldn't cope with was losing ground or face with Wally. His anger and disappointment crushed me like a fucking pop can. I walked around like a mushed accordion for weeks after that. Probably should have been a sign as to what my FEELINGS were, eh? *nudge*_

_So… I worked through my lunch period on a project with the foreign languages department, and following the sophomore lunch came the freshman lunch block. The department head told me I could eat with the freshmen since I missed my lunch… Nbd._

_Cool, I figured, I’ll sit with Babs._

_BABS WAS OUT SICK THAT DAY._

_GA was a big school — lots of students in each year. I knew no freshmen other than Barb at that point, and you. While I knew you very well as Robin then, I hadn't really gotten to know DICK outside of that selfie you snapped and your party and the occasional interaction in the hallways — and I also wasn’t aware of the fact that you were one and the same people yet. So when I looked out over the sea of unfamiliar faces at my unaccustomed lunch block (normally, I sat with Eric and Olive at my own period, tolerable company), I panicked. I picked a seat in the back corner by myself and started shredding the roll on my tray. I was FAMISHED — my mom’s disability check was late and we had very meager food supplies at home — but too embarrassed about sitting by myself to even THINK of nibbling._

“ _Well, look who it is!”_

_I looked up, and lo and behold, you. God, you were so young and tiny and juvenile back then — all ropy whipcord and barely sprouting peach fuzz. But you were charming — sweet and charismatic and endlessly, obnoxiously cheerful, and far be it from me to deny that or take that from you._

“ _Let me guess,” I sniped as you plunked your tray down and helped yourself to a seat across from me, “we’ll laugh about this someday.”_

“ _That remains to be seen, but the day is young,” you returned, grinning. “So — you've been demoted to dining with the froshies?”_

“ _Stayed over working on a project,” I said, and since I at least had company then and I didn't feel like talking, I tore into my food. To its credit, GA had decent eats, or at least I thought so. But I WAS a poor kid, so anything derived from somewhere other than a dumpster or a soup kitchen was pretty stellar. :P (I say this, and yet my mom is a perfectly decent cook.)_

_You were content to sit quietly, occasionally sending out feelers of conversation, encouraged when I'd deign to respond. You finally REALLY caught my interest, though, when you brought up Dexter, and that you felt it hit its end mark at the end of the fourth season, but you had committed to Season 5, so you were going to see it through._

“ _Oh, my God, I totally agree,” I said. “Except I've quit watching. What's happened since episode… Three, ish?”_

_You filled me in, explaining the plot. After a time, we got to discussing our favorite parts of the preceding seasons, which evolved into goofing around and joking about tangential topics — really, the dynamic we developed over the years we were friends, enhanced by the next step as lovers._

_I tended to eat fast — habits born of poverty and life on the lam — so I had finished my food before you. However, I was still hungry, but I had to stretch my lunch credits and couldn't comfortably get more fries. You were in the process of working your way through a container of fruit (probably recalling Alfred’s health Gestapo remonstrations), and had left half your mountain of cheese tots untouched. I was eyeing them, wanting one SO BADLY, too conditioned to ask._

_You caught me eyeballing the tots, and gestured at them._

“ _You’ve been eye-banging the crap out of those tots — you want some?” you asked, keeping at your fruit cup._

“ _Give me some of your tots!” I said._

_Yes — I busted out a Napoleon Dynamite quote, which you obligingly chased with, “No, go find your own!”_

_I laughed, but then quickly said, “Nah, I don't want to take your food,” even though my hand was already moving toward your tray._

“ _Here.” You pushed your tray at me._

“ _I'll just have one,” I assured you, and piled like seven onto my fork._

“ _Have them all. Alfred will have kittens if he hears cheese tots are what I spent lunch credits on the one day he didn't pack my lunch for me, anyway. You'll be doing me a favor.”_

“ _Can't you just eat them and lie?” I asked through a mouthful of the damn things._

“ _Alfred can smell a lie a parsec off,” you said, chuckling._

“ _All right, then,” I said happily, and finished off your tots. You got up for ice cream, and surprised me with one for me when you returned._

“ _How'd you know I wanted one?” I said happily, tearing into the drumstick like it was the last thing I'd ever do._

_You just shrugged. “Lucky guess?”_

_I said thanks, and we launched into a discussion about a teacher I profoundly disliked, which led to an inevitable Harry Potter chat._

_I felt better facing the rest of the day, comforted by the friendly exchange and easy, non-patronizing generosity. It hit me later that you really extended a kind gesture to me, full belly notwithstanding — that being sparing me the intense discomfiture of eating alone in a high school cafeteria (essentially every teen’s nightmare.) I was heartened enough that facing the team again was a far less terrifying endeavor, although I was still pretty bummed about and skittish around Wally at first. But… In your incog garb, shortly after I entered the cave to train with everyone a few hours after our little lunch date thing, you picked up on my clear and obvious agitation that befell me when Wally was nearby after that bonked mission, and although I'm sure you knew the answer, you asked me what was up. You eventually pulled a severely censored version of things out of me as we sat waiting on our turn to spar, and even tapped into the deeper stuff, encouraging me to touch on how distraught I was over Wally’s crunching disappointment in me. You were so goddamn nice, by the way (how are you always so nice?), assuring me that I didn't need to worry, that Wally would be completely cool — he was a carbon dioxide fire, you explained, in that he burned spectacularly and briefly — and there was no need to be anything but traught where he was concerned._

“ _Odds are he’s already over it,” you told me. “Even if he was mad about how things turned out all of one time, he HAS faith in you, Artemis. Besides, he knows better than any of us that we all screw up now and then.”_

_I laughed, comforted. To think that I actually didn’t need to censor things, since, it turned out, you knew about my scandalous family ties, and also to think that you'd admit to me later you totally shipped Wally and me even though RL shipping IS NOT COOL and you were more than happy to do your part to hook our stubborn asses up… :P_

_Ha. Man, the way the cookie crumbles. I'd have shrieked laughter in some metaphysician’s face if they tried telling me you and I would wind up a Thing one day._

_Looking back, though… you WERE always a friend to me, at least. I know I've mentioned your unending support a time or ten. But… You always LOVED me unconditionally, too. You were my FRIEND — and at that, one of my best. The days at GA became a lot easier to face, knowing you were there… and yeah, in hindsight, the knowledge of your presence buoyed me the most. And best yet? We never grew apart, NEVER, not even when team members quit or moved on and the team itself wasn't the same. We were friends — GOOD friends — behind the masks, as well._

_Listen… Regardless of anything that happened or is happening or will happen, that isn't going to change, and I know that. It’s the one constant in my life since Wally disappeared, that knowledge that you’ll always be my friend, unfiltered and unjudging and no fine print._

_Love you so much I can and can’t stand it, stud._

_You guessed it… More later. :P_

_Love,_

_Artemis_

  
  
  



	22. 5-24-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, all! <3 
> 
> SO! I know I said Friday... and I inadvertently lied. XD It's done, it's beta'ed, it's edited, and my mom just told me that I am absolutely NOT allowed to be running late tomorrow morning when she comes to pick up my youngest before I head in to work since she needs my help with the new carseat... meaning... I should probably not post in the morning before work, right?? I SHOULD JUST POST IT NOW, RIGHT?? Since I couldn't wait until tomorrow afternoon, GOD FORBID, RIGHT?? XD
> 
> LOL, honestly, I've been SO excited since Chapter 20 to post this one, so it was hard for me even to wait this long. <3 I just hope you guys enjoy reading it every bit as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3 
> 
> Shady Dudes(tm) is property of Mangaluva. <3 XD Hope you don't mind me endlessly ganking your lines...!! XD And thanks Chibi_Nightowl for the assist on the TimJay bit!!
> 
> ALL MY THANKS TO THE_POP_CULTURIST FOR BEING THE MOST AMAZING PERSON IN THE HISTORY OF AMAZING PERSONS. <3 You are seriously the best! <3 ^_^
> 
> Happy reading, all... Much love and I promise to curb the obnoxious spamming and early updates after this. :D
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo! <3 
> 
> ~EF <3

_May 24, 2019_

_Dick_

Every nerve buzzed with anticipation as I stood at the Zeta, getting briefed via comm before leaping through. I’d convene with my team on the other side — in Smallville. Fearless reporter and photographer Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, _The Daily Planet’s_ dream team, had been made aware of the underground business Luthor ran through that shell company in the basement of his Smallville lightbulb factory, and had subtly kept their eyes on it until that evening — _when a payload of apparent metas was brought into the sublevel of the building._ Lois had blown the whistle, and Jimmy had provided the photo evidence we needed. Now, it was time to haul ass to Smallville to intercept the intended shipment and blast this shit wide open. 

There were three bound, gagged metahumans brought into the facility. By all appearances, they were drugged to unconsciousness. It was go time — intercept this deal, tie it to Luthor, and he was done. Even if it was regrettable that he was struggling with his health, we couldn’t just _ignore_ acquisitions and sales of unstable weaponry to unknown, potentially hostile parties — and we _sure_ as hell couldn’t overlook kidnapping and selling metahumans. To hell with sensitivity — just because a guy has cancer doesn’t mean he isn’t solemnly swearing that he’s up to no good. And maybe Luthor was compiling weaponry and metas out of the intention of safeguarding world security due to some unknown threat, and maybe not. Maybe the UN was in on it, maybe they weren’t. And maybe Luthor was in the business of black marketeering for some sort of personal gain… and again, maybe he wasn’t. Hell, maybe he didn’t have a clue that nefarious deeds transpired in the basement of one of his facilities in the first place. We’d obviously never find out if we didn’t blow the fucking lid off the whole thing first. 

I met with my team (Alpha — Aqualad, Robin, Blue Beetle, Impulse, Miss Martian and Superboy, with Aqualad in charge) and we rushed via country roads and fields to avoid traffic and eyes. At the outside of the building, we convened with our partnering squad, an untraditional combination of Batman, Superman, Red Hood, and Deathstroke… Which yes, screamed of madness, and yet, there _was_ method in it, I swear. Bruce knew that the appearance of Batman and Red Hood together had a damn good chance of cowing even the most miscreant of goons into instant submission, and Deathstroke, clearly, was along for the ride in case his son was one of the metas in the process of transferral. Shadow or no, the kidnapping of his son was something that he couldn’t ignore anymore than we could. 

I was vibrating as we confirmed our plan of attack — not merely because this might be the evidence we needed to put a stop to the trafficking of ELE weaponry and exploitation of sentient beings to entirely unknown ends and expose Luthor’s true face to the globe that he had totally snowed, but because I really, really, _really_ wanted to know if Sportsmaster, Luthor’s apparent hired help, was in on this little hoedown… and I was _so_ ready to just clean house and throw his ass in the clink for good and all. 

Artemis had understandably been unsettled and edgy since Sportsmaster last dropped in to harass us in Gotham. Like the rest of us, she often had nightmares, waking up thrashing and shouting, confused, lost in the whirlpool of an old horror. I was _very_ familiar with that. But since her father came to call, these night terrors had increased tenfold — one of them so vivid and intense that when I gently shook her to wake her up, she sprang forward in her sleep and swung a fist with the speed and precision of a fucking pit viper. The force of that blow sent me spectacularly vaulting head over heels off the bed where I landed flat on my back on the wooden floor, disoriented and bleeding all over the throw rug. Alfred drove over and put three stitches in my lip while I sat on the kitchen counter — a common enough scene between the two of us, and Artemis was so overwhelmed with self-condemnation that she didn’t come out of the bedroom for nearly the entire day. I could never get her to talk about her nightmare, but when I finally coaxed her into letting me into the bedroom, convincing her that I wasn’t anything remotely akin to upset or angry, we just sat together on the bed, and once she was done apologizing approximately eight thousand times in rapid succession and worrying unhappily over my blown up lip, she let go an entirely despairing sigh. 

“I just can’t relax,” she said. “I know I’ve said that already, but I just _can’t relax._ I feel like I’ve seen Slenderman — and now he’s haunting every step I take, driving me more and more off the deep end with every passing second. Next thing you know, I’ll wind up scribbling all over the walls downstairs. Except instead of drawing some Turniphead wannabe, it’ll be discount Jason Vorhees.” 

Truthfully, I was so tired of this — not tired of getting nailed in the head, not tired of sitting with Artemis while she talked out her reams of seething emotions, not tired of having to be an inexhaustibly supportive partner to my lover day and night — I was tired of seeing Artemis _hurt_ , of seeing her so uncharacteristically nervous and afraid, of witnessing her well-deserved happiness dampened by the dark cloud her father endlessly represented. And that Sportsmaster had gotten away with the utterly deplorable shit he’d done to both his daughters, as well as the heinous crime he’d committed against his wife? It was all just _completely_ incogitable. Artemis couldn’t rest because in her present condition with its unaccustomed limitations and knowledge that there was now a wholly defenseless party added to the mix, she _feared_ her father — _I_ couldn’t rest because I wanted to see him _pay_ for every single reprehensible thing he’d done in his shitty, entirely wasted life. I wanted to _feel_ his teeth dislodge from his gums under my fists, _hear_ the sound of his desperate plea bargaining as I shoved him in wired bolas toward every fucking authority in the world. And I really couldn’t say I’d get too bent over anything they’d decide to do with him from there. 

Outside the factory, we shifted into stealth mode, and filtered into the building via the air ducts. Sounds like a bad spy movie, I know — but trust me, you can access a _lot_ by air ducts. It was a tedious process for those of us that didn’t have density shifting or super speed, but with M’gann and Bart probing ahead, we got a hit on where the deal was going down pretty quickly, and also received a good mental picture of what the situation was (psychic links are just a thing of beauty — the end.) 

A team of seven standard-issue thugs and Shady Dudes™ were in the process of shifting the bound, unmoving metahumans into the cryo-tubes that had been stored in the sublevel of the facility, and we shared a collective “Ah-ha!” when we clearly determined one of the captives to be Joseph Wilson. Through the link, I informed Deathstroke that I had eyes on Joseph, and then sent both him and Batman a quick mental run-through of my game plan. When I received the telepathic equivalent of a thumbs-up and a terse, “Get him out of there now — or I’ll break formation and do it myself” from Deathstroke, I gave the signal. 

M’gann and Bart comprised the first wave, moving unseen to disable two of the thugs, and then Tim and I made our own moves, sneaking up behind the next two to execute no-fuss knock-outs. This went on down the line, Kaldur and Conner taking out the next, and then Jaime taking out the last. It all carried off without a hitch — so smoothly, in fact, that I readied myself, knowing the other shoe was bound to drop at any second. 

Jason, receiving the word through the link, retrieved the truck that Lois and Jimmy had prepared for us, and confirming that he was at the rendezvous point on the outside of the building, we moved to carry the unconscious cargo to the vehicle. I handled Joseph myself. 

I paused when he shifted in the fireman’s carry across my shoulders, and when he wildly resisted my hold, flopping around on my back like a stranded fish, I let him slide in a frantic, writhing heap to the ground. He leapt upright, lifting his arms, his chest jumping under the plain tee he wore. 

“Bart, if he runs, I might need you to intercept him,” I said through the link. 

“Right-o, boss, on my way to keep tabs on the cargo!” Bart’s voice sang merrily, and he zipped up next to me. Joseph blinked to see his sudden arrival — doubtless akin to him just materializing out of the air, something I was pretty accustomed to by then. He backed away, visibly trembling. 

“Hey,” I said gently, holding up my hands as M’gann, taking notice of the commotion, came rushing over to stand with Bart and me, “it’s okay. We’re here to help you. I’m Nightwing, that’s Kid Flash, and that’s Miss Martian. Your father’s waiting for you outside.” 

He pointed at my chest, and then at M’gann’s, and then Bart’s, and then his fingers jumped deftly into a series of signed words. I knew some sign language, but this kid rattled the words off so quickly that all I caught was _proof, Dad, the hell,_ and _doesn’t like your type._

I decided to allay his fears by signing to him, _Slow down. I’m sign language impaired. All I got from that was proof your dad doesn’t like us?_

Joseph complied, his fingers moving less wildly as he signed, _My father isn’t a huge fan of the Justice League or Young Justice. Says they’re a bunch of hypocrites and never to trust them. I just find it very hard to believe he’d approach any of you people to find me. Also seems weird he’s not down here now._

I smiled reassuringly, and looked over at M’gann. 

“Can you link him up to us, Miss M?” I asked out loud. “So his dad can talk to him?” 

M’gann gave Joseph a smile of her own, and laid her fingers aside her temple. “Hold on, Joseph, I’m going to link us psychically. You won’t need to sign slowly or even at all afterward,” she told him cheerfully. Her eyes glowed, and I caught the passive sense that Joseph’s “line” was open, as she went on to say, “Deathstroke, your son is awake and included in the link.” 

“Joseph, do as they tell you,” I heard Slade’s authoritative voice echo through the connection. “I’m manning the roof. Are you hurt?” 

“No, I’m not hurt,” stuttered the uncertain cadence of Joseph’s “voice” through the link. It came in muffled spurts, uncomfortably, overlaid with images of moving fingers, as though he couldn’t quite imagine the sound of his own voice. “Is that really you, Dad?” 

“Not quite in the flesh, but don’t worry, it is,” Slade said. “Don’t hold them up. I’m waiting outside.” 

We received the mental equivalent of a nod, and with that, we kept moving. 

And then, _finally_ , the moment I subconsciously waited for the whole damn night — the other shoe I was _hoping_ would drop. 

“Well, lookee there, Hook,” came Crock’s voice echoing throughout the cavernous sublevel, instantly setting off a thrill along the surface of my spine, “duck out for five seconds to take a piss, and the Peewee Justice League shows up to shit in our sandbox. It’s not even nine o’clock — pony the fuck up, I win the pool.” 

“Fuck a goat, Crusher, like hell are you winning three hundred off me,” muttered Hook, as both appeared from the darkness that pooled by the factory’s sublevel doors to the upper garage and back lot. 

“Look alive up there — we’ve got bogeys,” Conner said through the link. 

“No shit,” Jason said, even mentally clearly distracted. “Ubu and a bunch of Shadows’ foot soldiers decided to drop in on our little roundup.” 

“Names, Superboy,” Bruce said curtly. 

“Sportsmaster and Hook so far,” Conner replied. “What’s the plan?” 

“Captives are the priority,” Batman said as Kaldur readied his water swords. “Protect them first and get them to the truck. Rendezvous remains the same.” 

“Does that mean engage?” I asked happily, about to fizz right out of my skin. 

“Affirmative.” 

I stepped in front of Joseph, drawing the Escrima sticks from their holsters, eyeing Sportsmaster with a big, sparkly grin. I looked over my shoulder, and, beyond stoked at the opportunity to use a one-liner, quipped, “Mr. Wilson, please relax and enjoy the show, exits are located to the front and rear of the building, and have you frequented our snack bar?” 

(FYI, it’s rare when you get to goof off and chuck jokes around during a tiff with bad guys. The movies lie. There’s hardly time for that shit when it’s your life you’re playing with.) 

I was gratified when Joseph released a silent, nervous laugh through a wide open, toothy grin, and then I turned to Crock. 

“I’ve got Sportsmaster,” I announced out loud, adopting an abierta (open guard) stance, every molecule buzzing with anticipation. 

“Dick,” Kaldur said through the link, even as Sportsmaster burst out laughing. 

“I got this,” I stated firmly. 

“You are not removed enough from this,” Kaldur said. “Allow me to handle Sportsmaster.” 

“Not removed enough? Let me fix that by removing _that_ giant asshole.” I flicked my eyes to Kaldur. “Aqualad, please. I _need_ this. Let me take it.” 

There was a pause, as Sportsmaster’s raucous laughter mingled with Hook’s and a group of Shadows’ foot soldiers filtered into the warehouse, five by my count. 

“Very well,” said Kaldur, resigned. “Compromise nothing for the sake of personal vendettas, Nightwing.” 

“Hai, Sensei,” I said, perking back up. “Joseph’s yours, Miss M.” 

“Robin, Miss Martian, it is up to you to deliver the captives to the rendezvous point. Blue Beetle, Impulse, Superboy, remain here and engage the Shadows,” Kaldur ordered. 

I barely caught that last order, to be honest, since Crock was talking — and I’d tuned fully into what he was saying. 

“How long you think you got Sportsmaster for, punk?” Lawrence chuckled, his shoulders still rolling. The rattle of the chain reverberated throughout the sublevel as he produced his favored weapon. “Hook, what say we add another hundred to the pool?” 

“You’re on, Crusher,” Hook laughed. “One minute.” 

“Before I crush his skull?” Crock swung his flail in a lazy circle. “Oh, come on. Thirty seconds, tops.” 

“Call it a bet,” Hook exclaimed as Aqualad rushed him, and he turned his attention to my teammate in a flurry of swift movements and flashing water. The Shadows sprang to attempt winning back their cargo. 

No one except Crock even glanced my way. 

Fucking _perfect._ I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d cast a spell lining the stars up to see this opportunity just fall in my lap like it did. Bring it, asshole. 

“Up for a hug, old man?” I said exuberantly, my grin widening as I lunged toward Sportsmaster to close the gap between us. “They’re free!” 

“Just make your peace with God, kid,” said Crock, equally exuberant, and hurled the ball of the flail straight at my head. 

Anticipating that move, knowing the baselines of his fighting style, I had already begun bowing into a backbend, retaining my balance on the balls of my feet. I sensed the sharp swipe of air as the heavy metal of the flail hissed overhead. I twisted to the side, tucking and rolling and coming up to my feet into a serada position as Crock ripped the head of the weapon back to him, catching it in a fluid motion. He rotated his wrist in slow, easy circles, the flail humming as he paced to his left, gauging me, circling me like a vulture. My nerves, skin, heart — everything sang to the sound of the weapon, as I maintained my closed guard stance, silently daring him to make the first move. 

This was not only the final maneuver that would put an end to Artemis’ nightmares, waking and sleeping, or that would see justice _at last_ done for so many — it was Wally’s unfinished business, too. It was something he’d always _dreamed_ of doing. He’d wanted it so badly he could _taste_ it. Too many times, drunk on Atlantean liquor and cock-strutting, he detailed how he’d fold Sportsmaster five ways and leave him a wad of chum to get sucked away by the Gulf Stream. It was just one opportunity of so many that were unfairly taken from him, and it was on me now to complete his unfinished business. And oh, trust me — _I would_. And all too happily, although I had my own ideas on how to execute the matter at hand. Leaving Lawrence requiring dentures and a straw for the rest of his life after making him choke on his own teeth was a particularly savory one. My hands shook with excitement around the Escrima, itching to feel the _snap-crackle-pop_ of breaking and dislodging dentals. 

“Gotta say, you’re pretty fucking embryonic compared to the Bat,” Crock taunted, languidly continuing to swing his flail in unhurried whirls with his slowly gyrating wrist. “Both my daughters are more ripped than you.” 

“Hell, yeah, they are,” I concurred, “and it’s kind of hot.” 

I couldn’t see his face, although his eyes glinted. “That why you’re just standing there? You scared, boy?” 

“I’ve just been waiting for you to ask me to dance, old man!” I jeered merrily. “What’s a guy gotta do to score a waltz with Crusher Crock around here?” 

“We’ll dance at your funeral, kid,” said Lawrence, and he rushed me again. 

Crock was strong — _way_ strong. As I skirted his flail time and again, engaging in the aforementioned dance with Sportsmaster, I couldn’t help in my sporadic, ridiculous, adrenaline-fueled thought bursts comparing him to _Game of Thrones’_ notorious Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. Defeatable — but you’ve got to be _quick,_ and God forbid you take one hit, or it would be over on the spot. And no take backsies — for _real_ over. 

The good news was — I _was_ quick. And I was _strong,_ too. That being said, I knew I’d never stand up to Crock in a contest of brute strength, but I could hold my own on the battlefield, at least. And if I could get rid of that pesky weapon of his, I could take as many blows from his fists as he felt like giving me and just keep plowing forward until I saw the job done. (Then fall on my face later.) 

I executed a quick tumble to avoid the ball of the flail, and as he swept it back, I sprang forward to get too close for him to use the weapon as a block. I feinted, swinging a swift figure eight motion with the Escrima sticks toward Crock’s chest, and when he took the bait, raising his arms to block his upper torso, I shifted gears to mule kick him — hard — in the abdomen. He was a _big_ dude — the blow barely sent him backward, but it did alter his balance enough that his arms lowered slightly to compensate. I gave him a solid whack with a witik strike in his exposed lat muscle before backing off, opting again for a serada stance, closed guard, attempting to fake him out. 

“Not going to say I underestimated you,” said Crock, swiping the flail into a rapidly rotating wheel, “but you _are_ quick on your feet.” 

“Or you’re slowing down in your old age,” I said, giving him my most fabulous smile, the one that got retweeted a gazillion times and scored an equal gazillion Instagram likes when I was on _Project Runway_. 

He snorted. “Hate to crack it to you, kid, but I’ve been sandbagging. Five second count to win —” 

When he thrust the flail toward me mid-sentence, I swiped one stick toward the chain, and by a massive streak of luck _caught_ it, taking a glancing blow to the cheekbone and ear that, if taken full-on, would have punched my ticket before I even knew what the hell happened to me. As it was, it damn near knocked me off my feet and set my ear to ringing so loudly I nearly went deaf under its shrill, tinny shriek. I muscled through the disorientation and pop-burst of lights that confettied my vision, and swiveled my wrist, with one quick motion drawing the chain into a loop around the Escrima stick, even as I twined more of its length around the other. I then _heaved_ backward with all my weight behind it, fighting the reeling of my head and the metallic taste of blood as it streaked over my cheek and into my mouth. Crock had hurled the weapon outward, loosening his grip and throwing his balance to the fore — if I was quick enough, I’d yank the flail right out of his hands. 

I was. And I did. 

I hurled it away as far as I could, sending it swooping in a swinging arc across the sublevel warehouse. I shifted triumphantly into an abierta stance this time — brazen, gloating, daring, my smile only broadening. My symptoms dissipated under the renewed onslaught of adrenaline, the rush invigorating my muscles, throwing all of my systems into overdrive. 

Crock chuckled. “Well, looks like you can take a pretty good hit, too. Fast _and_ pretty talented with your little sticks. But what about when you’re _not_ hiding behind a weapon, kid?” He lapsed into a Muay Thai stance, his powerful shoulders rippling under his uniform shirt and armoring. “Let’s kick this old school. _Fists.”_

“Fists, huh?” I said cheerfully, holstering the Escrima. “I didn’t know you were into _that_ , Grandpa — bend over!” 

He leapt into action, lunging toward me, hauling back to deliver a combination of quick taps and blows. I blocked each, twisting and presenting my protected lat to catch a particularly egregious strike, knowing that even with the armored padding of my suit, I’d be feeling each hit later. Nothing for it, though, for the time being — I had to endure and go on, and bank on my speed to outdo the giant motherfucker. And I’d have to go all in on every hit I landed — Crock, as mentioned, was _huge —_ I needed to overpower him and get him down as quickly as possible. One wrong move and this would doubtless wind up with me lying prone with my head squashed like a gourd. And for as much as I wanted to taunt him and screw with him, I knew there wasn’t time or opportunity. 

We dashed about one another, trading jabs, neither gaining the upper hand for a while, both integrating each other’s styles and moves. Crock was an experienced fighter, but I wasn’t green around the gills, either — and the balance of power continually teetered between the two of us. I grew frustrated, wanting to just unleash on the colossal prick, but I kept a cool enough head to analyze the situation, and knew, as we broke away from a suffocating clinch to pace in circles, that if I was going to shove the odds strictly into my favor, I needed to cut the cards — make a big move, a _smart_ move. 

“You know, you owe your pal over there a hundred bucks,” I said, words selected to shift the pieces on the board. “Hate to rain on your parade, but it’s been longer than a minute.” 

“You keeping track?” said Crock. I basked at how out of breath he was — I was giving the old dinosaur a better workout than I thought. 

Fully pleased with myself, I shrugged one shoulder. 

“You’re getting lucky, you little pissant,” said Crock. 

“Or _you_ are, Pop-pop,” I said cheerfully. 

A beat… then _bingo._

When Crock darted in, landing another hit on the flat plane of my hooked upper arm and bounced back, I threw my balance onto the ball of one foot and feinted left, then snapped a powerful tae pub nok kick to the right. It was a slightly desperate move, a huge gamble that lowered my guard significantly — but I solidly struck the outside of Crock’s knee joint. He clearly did _not_ expect that move or level of aggression from me — _and_ _he stumbled._

I finally had him. 

“Take the giant off balance, off guard even for a second, and your speed will carry you onward to victory,” as Diana said once, and frankly? She couldn’t have been more right in that situation. 

I hurled myself at him with every pound of weight I carried, driving my knee into his gut, then leaping up to slam my elbow down full-throttle onto his collarbone. I heard the distinct _snap_ of the clavicle as it cracked under the blow. As he reeled backward, I let loose some rapid footwork, finishing the combo off with a swiftly executed tornado kick, and even though his London Bridge was falling down, I dropped into a spinning sweep, helping his descent along by taking his feet right out from under him. He went flat to his back with a loud huff of expelled air from his lungs, muffled by his mask. 

My nerves fucking _rang_ as I gleefully channeled the Rock, dropping into an unhindered, full-weight People’s Elbow (the first I _ever_ had the opportunity to do), dislocating ribs when I landed on his exposed chest. Rising in a quick movement, I drew one Escrima stick and brought it down onto his mask, cracking it down the middle in a single, satisfying throw. In his momentary disorientation, I reholstered the baton and ripped the covering from his face. A thrill speared through me when I saw his expression — panic, fear, uncertainty. The great Crusher Crock, pissing himself underneath me. That motherfucker was _mine._

I unleashed a rapid, furious series of hooks and jabs to his head, all with my fists, mustering every iota of strength, effort, and intensity that I possessed from the nuclei of my marrow, each strike fueled by the relentless rancor and pure, unfiltered _rage_ I felt for the man beneath me. The closer I got, the more _personal_ it became, and now the levees were down, I couldn’t stop the incoming flood as its waters burst through any more than a candle could have stood up to the gales of a hurricane. For months I had wanted blood for the scene he pulled at Christmas, and I was _fully_ out for it, now — Lawrence Crock had not only encroached on my home and threatened and insulted me, he’d taken it to the next goddamn level when _he threatened my family._ My girlfriend, his daughter, _my_ daughter, his granddaughter. And the unthinkable horrors he’d subjected Artemis, his own _child_ to — they were crimes past comprehension in their consummate, unadulterated _evil._ This wasn’t some stupid fight between a domineering dad and airhead teenage boyfriend, this wasn’t a lame territorial squabble, this wasn’t a pile of alpha male bullshit or a dumbass attempt at expressing dominance — this was a _message_. 

_Threaten me or mine, see what happens._

I wrestled with a bellowing temptation to just rip my mask off and let him know _I_ was the entitled yuppie fuckhead who knocked up Baby Girl, the one who stood like the northern Wall between him and his daughter, the one was two seconds from ripping pleas for mercy from him even now. I wanted him to _know_ who he was actually fucking with. I wanted him to see my face and _know_ who put his ass away for once and for all and made him _answer_ for all he’d done. 

It was like a shot of epinephrine, the excitement pumping through my body past light speed, as his teeth cracked, broke, and finally came loose, all of my vivid fantasies at once coming to life beneath my knuckles, every dark imagining materializing beneath me. When his bottom lip split down the middle like a candy wrapper, he lifted his arms, anchoring his back against the ground. I felt his legs drawing up to attempt a grapple, and I jumped to my feet and tucked into a quick somersault — _too fast for your tubby old ass, you fucking dinosaur_ — and rolled into a crouch. When Sportsmaster got himself up on one knee, I sprang, low to the ground, and plowed top gear into him. He was a hell of a lot heavier than I was, but let’s face it — big tree fall hard. He tilted, his center of balance lost, and I happily took that opportunity to thrust him to his back, lifting his head by a hank of sweaty hair, and slamming it down into the concrete of the ground beneath. He attempted to shift to the side, and, opting for the chance at a move highly illegal in any officialized circuit, I _let_ him turn, and then twisted around him to yank his enormous form into a crunching bow and arrow choke. I hauled back with all my might, fully intending to choke him until he teetered on the edges of unconsciousness under the oxygen debt before tying him up and handing him over. 

I know. I cheated. And got a little ham-handed. But when you’re outsized, you go for the throat. That aside — fuck that piece of shit. It’s not like I needed to give him a hot toddy and a blankie before laying his ass out to dry. Every questionable move I dished, trust me, he deserved _far_ worse. 

I abruptly lost my grip on Crock’s struggling form when a shock of icy water smacked me in the face — a rude awakening from a particularly sweet dream. 

“Enough,” Kaldur’s voice rang, aloud, authoritative and _final._ “Leave him, Nightwing. It is finished.” 

I acquiesced, a little dazed from the sudden shock of water that my friend had just thrown in my face, and released Crock, who heaved and coughed as I loosened my hold. The second he attempted rising, I wrapped his wrists in bolas, and pressed a button to wire them. If he gave any resistance, a good zap from those would push his tail between his legs. Nastily, I informed him of that little factoid as I rose over him and yanked him upright, not trying overly hard to steady him when he swayed on his feet. 

“…Christ, the sandbagging, you lucky fuck —” Crock wheezed, lisping through his missing teeth and bleeding gums, blood drooling thickly over his chin. He spat, incensed now, partially regaining his bearings. “Look at me, you little piece of shit — I swear it, here and now, _you are a dead man walking._ Your days walking with the living are fucking numbered. They’re _numbered._ ” He spat again, this time shucking another tooth. “You’re fucking _dead._ Pussyass bitch —” 

“I get that a lot,” I said jovially, shaking his bolas to remind him who was boss. “But look at me… still fully ambulatory and converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. Care to make this a little easier on yourself on tell me here and now who you’re working with? Who set this ring up?” 

“Grow some eyes in the back of your head, fucking pissant,” he slurred, ignoring my question. “I just hope you got a good fucking look at my face after you got my mask off — because I swear here and now, it’s the last goddamn thing you’ll see before you die. Slowly, painfully, and _alone.”_

“If your face is the last thing I see before I die slowly, painfully, and alone… Doesn’t the seeing your face bit mean I’ll have your charming self around for company, so by default… _not_ alone?” I said. 

I shoved him forward, resisting the urge to catch his ankle with my foot and just let him do a swan dive into the asphalt as we made our way through the exit bay doors. Another truck had been brought to the lot beyond, one for the rescued hostages, one for the captured villains. As I was fighting Sportsmaster, I hadn’t bothered to take notice of the rest of the mission — it was a complete success, everything apparently having gone smoothly and without incident beyond the escalated brawl with Crock. All three captives were conscious and preparing to board the vehicle, and all of our opponents were effectively detained and being prepped for transport by more Leaguers and teammates that had arrived at some point to provide backup. Excellent. 

“Listen,” I continued, regardless of the slap of cold water riding the high of having just wiped my shoes on the one person on this earth other than Zucco I really, truly hated, “I understand this was a little embarrassing for you and you’re upset and bound to make a few threats. But… and I mean this with all due respect, I mean, I have _full_ respect for my elders, but you should probably get some new material, Grandpa. If I may… your choices in threatening verbiage are a little out of date — you know, kind of like you.” 

(No, I wasn’t being very nice or hero-like. Yes, I derived a bit of satisfaction in getting him all pissed off. Sue me.) 

Crock was about to snarl a reply when Kaldur stepped up, silencing him by forcibly gripping the bolas around his wrists and wresting him from me. 

“I will take over from here, Nightwing,” said Kaldur. I couldn’t tell if he was stern or amused. “Batman wishes to see you in the Watchtower in ten minutes for an individual debriefing.” 

I drew up short before I could stop myself. 

“Individual debriefing?” I queried. 

Something like that coming from Batman only had one meaning — you were in a _fuckton_ of trouble. 

“He has something he wishes to say to you,” said Kaldur, briefly sending the tremendous, long sought victory I was flying high on into an abrupt tailspin. “As do Green Arrow and Black Canary.” 

And then, through the link, “As do I. I am less than thrilled by how you went about securing this particular success — but I _am_ thrilled that you did. Any words of criticism I might have, I will leave them to our mentors. You did well, Nightwing.” 

I gave him a half-smile, my proverbial flight back on course. 

“You’re fucking dead, punk,” Crock was muttering drunkenly. 

“I’ve heard that one before — and buddy, you’re way closer to a timely death than I am,” I said easily. 

Slade strode over to us from where he stood by Joseph. 

“Well… _Crusher,”_ he said through his mask, cruelly amused, “you look like you’re in a world of hurt.” 

“If it ain’t the hack Deathstroke,” Crock snarled. “I knew you were a total candyass sellout, but taking up with _these_ assholes is a new low, even for you.” 

Slade’s body language didn’t shift an inch. “You know the proverbial line that even morally desiccated souls like ourselves have? It was three miles behind you when you extended your metahuman acquisitions to include my son. Don’t think I don’t know you pulled that stunt just to fuck with me.” 

“And you’re Father of the Year?” Crock growled. His mouth was bloodied almost comically, giving him a clownish look. 

“What was it you kept going on about when you thought the Atlantean here offed your daughter?” said Slade. “Your rep?” 

Crock chuffed a mirthless laugh. “I get it, Dickstroke. This is about pride, isn’t it — I fuck with your kid, you insult me by going to mine to do me in.” 

I could just hear the derisive smirk in Slade’s voice. “I knew she would. I was a little surprised to see she’s expecting when I dropped in on her back in April — congratulations, by the way, you’ve got _two_ grandkids now — but it’s not as though her wits or connections have gone out the window. Your girl delivered.” 

Well, this all made a lot more sense, I thought. Artemis and I had enjoyed many a conversation about how we just couldn’t connect Concerned Dad Slade with Killer Psycho Deathstroke. 

“Well. Guess I’ll just add both of you to my list then, along with this little fucknut here,” Crock said, leveling on me a toothless sneer. 

“What kill list,” I scoffed, bristling, leaning toward Lawrence. “The only list you’re going to keep in jail is a list of johns and clients with those toothless gums you’ve got. You’re going to be _real_ popular in Belle Reve — just tell Bubba I sent you.” 

“Dick, that really is enough,” Kaldur said through the telepathic connection, although I could sense his own amusement. 

“Fine, I’ll back off,” I said mentally, and when Kaldur tugged Crock to the truck and Slade returned to Joseph, I took in a breath, catching up to reality, still not a hundred percent there. 

I focused on just reanchoring, calming the hell down, and bracing myself for the _individual debriefing_ in the Watchtower. I was so intent on that I jumped a foot when Tim and Jason both approached me. 

“Dude, I heard the news! You got Sportsmaster?” said Tim, watching as Crock was loaded unceremoniously into the truck. 

I settled, and laughed, running a hand over my damp hair. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I did.” 

“I saw it — bro, you fucked him up,” Jason chuckled. “Like — _utterly_ fucked him up. Hell, from what I saw, you made it look _easy.”_ He leaned in toward me. “You hiding a little Faustian devil in your swimsuit somewhere? One you made a pact with to make all your wins come easy? That was a _sick_ bow and arrow choke, by the way.” 

I was beginning to unwind by then, gradually unraveling from the overload of adrenaline, my muscles unlooping themselves from their strangulating grip around my tightly strung core, and as my breathing and heart rate decelerated and evened out, the _reality_ of what had happened, what I had actually just done dawned on me, slowly, like the questing first light of day. 

A lot came over me in that moment, a swelling tide of mixing and rocking emotions. I didn’t feel… _bad,_ necessarily. But there was definitely some regret, some self-condemnation — I mean, it wasn’t like I was _proud_ to have left the old bastard gagging on his own teeth and unable to walk in a straight line. How violent it got, how out of control I allowed myself to get — that was never going to be a point of pride with me; rather, it would always be cause for attrition. It was, I knew, nothing better than what a remorseless criminal would have done, barely a step over Sportsmaster’s own misdeeds. 

Still… kicking the crap out of a murdering, bloodthirsty socio-psychopath wasn’t something I’d lose a ton of sleep over, either. And there _was_ a hint of pride in having caught one of the League’s (and world’s _)_ most sought-after villains, one they’d tried unsuccessfully to nab for decades. That’s not even getting into the more far-reaching implications of this raid — we at last had _real_ dirt on Luthor, dirt we could work with, that would expedite the investigation and hopefully be the first step toward putting a stop to the trafficking of metahumans and sanctioned weaponry. 

Mostly, I was relieved — just _so_ unthinkably relieved. Not only were things really moving against the crimes committed across the world, I honestly hadn’t realized how much Sportsmaster’s presence had actually _weighed_ on me up until then — I had felt that heaviness through Artemis, filtering it through her experiences and feelings, never acknowledging how it actually made _me_ feel. Now that the threat was removed, I was at once overwhelmed beneath a toppling wave of relief, as though I had at last soothed an ache that I hadn’t realized was bothering me so much until it was finally alleviated. 

And… I was tired. _Exhausted,_ actually. Every single inch of my body felt as though it had been put through ten back-to-back Ironman Championships, overexerted, abused, and stressed to the limit. Muscles I didn’t even know I had screamed angry protest, all of the marks, contusions, and bruises I’d acquired during the brawl with Sportsmaster making themselves spontaneously and loudly known. I could have fallen on my face and slept for a goddamn _week_ after that — I hadn’t actually comprehended how much strength and effort I’d thrown into that fight until then. I had unconsciously gone in balls to the wall, landing every strike at max capacity, topping out every sprint, leap, and tumble, ignoring every clout I took. And now, standing in that lot, coming down off of that immense, sustained effort, my tank was all at once completely dry, leaving me running on fumes. 

I had also taken a hell of a lot more of a freaking _pounding_ than I’d initially registered. I’d probably need checked out in the medlab later — after the ominous _individual debriefing_ , of course. 

Yikes. 

“Thanks,” I said in response to Jason’s compliment. “Guess I got lucky. Sportsmaster said he was sandbagging — probably why I was able to get the jump on him.” 

“Oh, cut out the humble crap,” said Jason. “Wouldn’t have mattered if the old fucker _was_ sandbagging — you’d still have mopped the floor with his ancient ass. Seriously, own it. You nailed one of the slipperiest cons on the market and publicly humiliated him to boot. And if the bigwigs are pissed over how you went about doing it, well, fuck ’em, says I. They ought to build a shrine to your honor.” 

I snorted, and impersonated Bruce. “ _Nightwing, you have comported yourself in a manner unbecoming to a member of Young Justice.”_ I bit my thumb, and said, in a somewhat reasonable British accent, “Well, I bite my thumb at thee, sir.” 

“We _all_ bite our thumbs at thee,” Tim said, laughing. “Don’t worry, we’ll back you up if you need it later.” 

“Thanks, man,” I said. 

Tim stretched his arms over his head, and then scowled. “Speaking of biting thumbs at thee, I really hope the debriefing and paperwork don’t take too long from here — I have a huge paper on _Othello_ due tomorrow and I haven’t even started the damn thing.” He dragged his hands over his face, and then scratched his fingers through his hair. “I can write code in my sleep in every computer language in the world, and yet I somehow can’t get it together for a stupid paper on Shakespeare. How does _that_ work?” 

“Well, lucky for you, _my_ ass can write that shit in its sleep,” said Jason. “If you need some help with it, I’m not doing anything for the rest of the night.” 

“Oh, my God, would you?” Tim said, probably a little more eagerly to the rest of us than to his own ears. I inclined my head. 

“Sure,” said Jason. “Just don’t try making me drink that toxic energy coffee shit, and we’ve got a deal.” 

“If I get anything less than an A, I’m blaming you, I hope you know,” Tim said, grinning and rotating his bo staff in an elaborate circle before retracting it and placing it in his belt. 

“Oh, no, big bad Robin, on my tail for scoring him a 90% on one paper… Whatever will I do!” Jason said, fanning himself. He turned to me. “Where the hell’d you find this kid, dude?” 

I grinned. “He found _us,_ remember?” 

“That’s right.” In one fluid motion, he jerked Tim’s cape over his head. “Well, I stand by my claim that the Replacement is still the slowest Boy Wonder. I know that thing’s fireproof, but it won’t serve any purpose beyond making it _real_ easy to drag you off and give you a swirly, nerd.” 

“Screw you,” Tim laughed, re-righting his cape’s positioning. 

“That the going rate for writing your paper for you?” Jason shook his head. “Speaking of comporting oneself in a manner unbecoming to a member of Young Justice.” 

I couldn’t help but laugh. They’d really come a long way from Jason leaping out at Tim as though he’d been thrust straight out of _Five Nights At Freddy’s_ in a misguided effort to get rid of his replacement. Jason was all but a mad dog then — seething and confused with Pit Rage, bent on destroying the person that had precipitately taken his place after his death. He hadn’t taken stock of the fact that Barbara and I were with Tim at the time, happy to intercede in Jason’s unhinged vengeance mission, though — but none of us came out of that scrape unscathed. Tim endured the beating of a lifetime, while I got a mental beatdown that I really wasn’t prepared for, especially so soon after Wally’s disappearance. It was the first time I really made the connection that the Red Hood was, in fact, my kid brother — back from the dead. Bruce and I were massively on the outs for a while after that, too, since he’d considerately and sensitively kept that bit of info from me. It was also the first cog thrown into the gears of my relationship with Babs, too, since she profoundly disagreed with every inch of how I handled things from there. 

Thinking on it, I’d really come a long way, too — I was at rock bottom for a long time before that year. I warmed up inside, my thoughts landing on Artemis — she had truly been a solid, unwavering friend to me all through it, my best, in fact. Certainly more so than she realized or gave herself credit for, no matter how I tried to express this to her. And now, in spite of the hell of the past three years, I was pretty much up in the sky, chilling on Cloud Nine, zooming joyfully over the moon. I couldn’t stop a grin, not only over Tim’s banter with Jason, but over life in general — it was honestly looking pretty damn good from there. 

I drew up when I heard Kaldur’s voice inside my head through the still established link. 

“You had best Zeta to the Watchtower,” he said. “The League has nearly concluded their discussion and Batman, Black Canary, and Green Arrow will be looking to speak with you shortly.” 

I sighed, and squared my shoulders. 

“Well, guys,” I announced, “it’s go time. Wish me luck.” 

“You’ll be fine,” said Tim. “Honestly, I think they’re calling you up to congratulate you, if anything. Nailing Sportsmaster is something they’ve been trying to do for years — decades, actually, some of them — and you just did it in under ten minutes.” 

“Let’s hope so,” I sighed, and made my way to the Zeta, my stomach frothing with fully revived nerves. 

******* 

I opened the door to the house once I finally got home, limping, exhausted, unthinkably sore, and in probably the best and most gratified mood imaginable. The individual debriefing with Bruce, Ollie, and Dinah had transpired a little differently than how I’d expected — there were remonstrations over how heavyhanded I’d gotten with Crock, sure, but mostly, it was a pat on the back and a whole new set of tasks that would be given to me in cooperation with the FBI. 

“I have spoken to the director of the FBI since we tied up the raid at the factory,” said Batman, “and as of now, search warrants have been commissioned for all of his residences and business locations. The acquisitions of his computers and devices — smartphones, tablets, laptops, desktops, everything — is top priority, not to mention locating any of his more clandestine communication tools. All of the devices and machines belonging to his employees will also be examined at a later date by a third party team. It’s not a promise that anything will be found, given that Luthor is hardly a fool and will undoubtedly have covered his tracks effectively, but it is an avenue that must be explored regardless. At the least, it may give us a lead to the ultimate evidence that we require. This being said, I think we’re all aware of the fact, and in accord that you’re the best candidate to complete the task of personally combing Luthor’s machines to attempt retrieving incriminating files that may have been deleted or encrypted, be those conversations, emails, records, etc. Anything that might aid in this investigation.” 

“What do you think, Nightwing?” asked Ollie. “You up for completing this one?” 

“Hell, yeah, I’m willing,” I said. “Just say when you’ve gotten the devices and I’ll be all over it like white on rice. Nothing in cyberspace is ever truly deleted, as the old adage goes.” 

With that, it was onto Sportsmaster. 

“While we’re pleased that you singlehandedly captured a long-time target of the League — and globe, for that matter — your methods were questionable at best,” said Batman. “There was talk of suspension, and if it had been any subject other than Sportsmaster, Nightwing, you might very well have been sent packing for a few weeks. As it stands, however, we will be speaking to Aqualad, as it was his decision to allow you to confront Sportsmaster in the first place — placing you in a situation that you truly were not removed enough from — and giving you a very clear warning not to allow anything of this nature to happen again.” 

“Mind over matter, Nightwing,” said Dinah. 

“Fair enough,” I said ruefully. “I get that the teeth thing was maybe a little much.” 

“Oh, whatever, the fucker doesn’t need his teeth, anyway,” Ollie said, waving a hand. 

“Oliver,” Dinah said, although she couldn’t fully stop the smile that tugged at her lips. 

Ollie just shrugged and grinned. “If you ask me, you did good, kid.” 

I smiled, disarmed, and feeling suddenly absolved of my apparent missteps from earlier. “Thanks, GA.” 

“He’ll be questioned officially from here,” Dinah informed me. “Hopefully, once his highly deserved concussion wears off and he remembers what’s good for his health, he’ll be happy to throw Luthor under the bus if he thinks that will get him off easier.” 

I nodded in agreement, and my smile only got bigger when Bruce announced, “I got the call. Sportsmaster has been given preliminary treatment for his injuries and remanded to Belle Reve. He’s officially under heavy lockdown — in custody to await trial.” 

I lost my breath. “Phew. All the abuse to my knuckles officially vindicated.” 

“You know, I have to ask,” said Dinah, not bothering now to hide her smile as she approached me. “How did it feel to mop the floor with that son of a bitch?” 

Unable to help myself, I felt my smile spread into a grin, all manner of compunction by now completely gone, replaced with total triumph. “It felt like walking on freaking _sunshine_ , BC — not going to lie.” 

“Dick, you handled yourself like a veteran of thirty years,” Dinah told me. “It seems wrong to congratulate you on something you were threatened suspension for, but… you were truly impressive tonight. You’ve grown so much from that little gymnast that Bruce presented me with for training all those years ago.” She and Bruce shared a look. “I think even the great Bat of Gotham might find a challenge in you. Good job.” 

“Thank you,” I said, my face flushed warm with pride and pleasure at her words, by now flying completely high on them and the enormous victory I’d just attained not only for the world, but on a personal level for my family, too. 

Ollie slapped my shoulder. “Damn straight. Now get your butt home to Artemis and tell her the good news.” 

“Nightwing,” said Batman as I headed toward the Zetas, “you might want to spend some time with Cross in the medlab first. You took more hits than I think you realize.” 

“Ugh, that’s the truth,” I concurred, worrying at my flayed open cheek. In my excitement, I’d totally forgotten my injuries. “I’ll stop by the medlab, but I’m telling Cross to make it quick.” 

“Nightwing,” he said, again, halting my steps. 

I turned. 

“Well done.” 

I grinned, and went to get checked out. 

Now at home, crossing the threshold into the foyer and shutting the door behind me, _everything_ hurt. I needed a hot bath in epsom salts and a long, long, _long_ nap. I’d cancelled every engagement I had lined up for the next week — everything from social outings to classes to meetings with clients — and planned on going all in on some rest before starting on the task of decrypting Luthor’s devices. 

I smiled ear-to-ear as Artemis, hearing me come inside, entered the foyer from the living room, looking fucking adorable in my _Deadpool_ tee, her hair loose and floating around her in a platinum cloud. Princess trotted along on her heels. By the time I opened my arms and caught Artemis in a hug, hampered by her belly, my grin threatened to separate my face. 

“How’d it go, Big Bird?” she asked. “You’re actually back earlier than I expected — dinner’s in the fridge if you want it.” She made a face when she saw my cheek. “Ooph. That’s a beauty — what happened there?” 

“Well, it’s definitely a beauty, and I’m going to wear this one like the badge of honor it is,” I told her. “Got it fighting with Sportsmaster.” 

Her eyes widened, and she gestured. “Wait — _Sportsmaster_ was there tonight?” 

I just grinned wider, completely beside myself, schoolboy giddy with excitement. “Oh, yes.” 

“Why the heck is that cause for cackling like you’ve just inhaled a tank’s worth of laughing gas?” she asked. She reached out, and worried gently at the stapled wound on my cheekbone. 

“It’s cause for cackling like a maniac because we got him, Artemis.” I grasped her arms, barely resisting bouncing around like a teenybopper. “We _got_ him. He’s in jail.” 

Her mouth went slack even as her body did the same. “…What?” 

“Sportsmaster’s in Belle Reve. We made sure of it — and they pretty much locked him up and threw away the key.” 

She slowly shook her head, clearly not daring to believe it. 

“Dick… really?” 

Again, I smiled. “Really. It’s going to be okay, Arty. It’s _finally_ going to be okay. He’s locked up for good — and a _lot_ locked up at that. He will _never bother you again —_ life without parole is the best he can hope for.” 

She gazed at me silently for a series of moments, moving through the layers of disbelief, shock, and finally, comprehension. 

Then, she just hurled her arms around me, pressing her face into my neck. 

“Oh, my God, Dick,” she breathed, her form vibrating in my arms. “Oh, my God. Are you serious?” 

“I’m serious,” I said, and rested a hand on her hair. “It’s over, Artemis. He’s in jail. You don’t need to worry about him anymore.” 

She shook her head, quivered in my arms, and all at once started to laugh and cry at the same time. I laughed with her as she said, “Dick, I just — I can’t believe it — does my mom know? Does Jade?” 

I drew back, and smiled, close to tearing up, myself. “I don’t think so, not yet. You want to do the honors?” 

“ _Yes,”_ she gushed happily through her tears with one bounce on her toes, and then she sped into the living room to call her mother and sister. I stretched my arms over my head, inhaled, exhaled, and then bent to pick up the cat, who wove around my ankles, issuing her soundless meow and vying for my attention. I pressed my cheek to hers, kissed her between her ears, and carried her into the living room, where I caught the tail end of Artemis’ conversation with her mom. 

“I know, I don’t know if it will ever feel completely real… It’s just too good to be true,” she was saying. She wiped a tear from her cheek, and then smiled broadly at me as I walked in and put the cat down. “Definitely call Jade. …Not sure how it happened, I’ll ask Dick and send you a text. Sorry I called you so late. …I love you, too. Bye, Mom.” 

She set down her phone and turned to me, her face glowing in the soft illumination of the standing paper lamp, her whole form visibly vibrating in her excitement. 

“So, Dick — what _happened?”_ she asked. “I mean, how did you manage to finally _catch_ him? The League, the FBI, a gajillion police jurisdictions across the world — _so_ many people have tried nabbing him and he’s slipped them every time —” 

“Well, I took a bit of a beating for it,” I confessed, indicating my cheek. “But honestly… I think he got a little cocky — and you know what they say, pride comes before the fall.” 

She snorted. “Pride is just _one_ of all seven deadly sins he’s chronically guilty of.” 

“Hey, it served me pretty well earlier — he and I wound up going toe-to-toe, like one on one, just the two of us.” I paused. “Sounds kind of romantic, but trust me, it wasn’t. Anyway, he apparently wasn’t real impressed by my less-than-intimidating stature, so… Guess I caught him sandbagging.” 

Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You versus Sportsmaster?” 

“Dead serious,” I said. “UFC style.” 

“And you’re still _alive?”_

I adopted a wounded look. “Oh, come on, Arty — I won the _hell_ out of that fight. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but…” I couldn’t help grinning stupidly as I went on to say, “Toot, toot.” 

She grinned back. “I never doubted you, stud. Just… My dad’s been kind of an unstoppable force in my mind for so long, it’s… It’s just _new,_ acknowledging that someone could ever beat him.” 

I dusted my knuckles. “Well. If I do say so myself, I didn’t just beat him — I _crushed_ him.” 

She gesticulated excitedly. “ _God,_ I wish I could have been there. You know, if you’re limping and have staples in your face, do I even want to know what _he’s_ looking like right about now?” She paused, then laughed giddily. “Wait. Of course I do. Please tell me.” 

“Well… I kind of knocked half his teeth out,” I admitted. 

“You’re _kidding.”_

“Kid you not,” I said. 

“Oh, my God,” she giggled. “He’s got to be breathing _fire._ ” 

“Oh, yeah,” I said, affected by her mirth, “apparently I’m on his list now.” I mock shuddered, and pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. “Lordy, Arty, save me! I’m on Larry’s List!” 

“What list,” she scoffed, still chuckling. “A laundry list of clients lining up for his toothless gums in Belle Reve?” 

I laughed heartily at that. “Artemis, that’s pretty much word for word what I told him.” 

She laughed, too, and then wrapped her arms around me again. 

“Dick, thank you,” she murmured, all levity gone, replaced with intense feeling. “I mean it. Thank you. You have _no_ idea what this means to me. To my mom, to Jade, to _so_ many.” 

I kissed the top of her hair, and with the sense that all was right with the world, just held her a while. We both laughed some more when there was a perceptible jump within her abdomen after a time. 

“Baby has hiccups,” she said, drawing back and looking happily down at her middle. “Or she’s laughing, too. You know, I feel like we should celebrate — but I also feel like we should probably consider that tomorrow at the earliest. No offense, but you look like you got run over by a bus.” 

I chuckled a bit. “None taken — I _feel_ like I got run over by a bus. I kind of redlined it the whole way through that fight, while we’re being painfully honest. Six months of sleep sounds like a pretty upstanding way to celebrate.” 

She reached up, and tugged a stray lock of hair away from the cut on my cheek. “Well, how about a massage and a _really_ stiff drink, then?” 

“You serving up those things topless?” I asked, leaning my forehead against hers. 

She snorted. “At this point, I will do pretty much anything you want. You earned it, stud.” 

Screw the bath — a topless massage from my smoking hot girlfriend was _way_ better. 

We headed up to the bedroom, and I readily flopped belly first onto the surface of the bed. I inhaled, my lungs burning as they expanded. My back smarted where Crock clobbered my latissimus. My ankle throbbed. My head hurt. I was a little dizzy, not quite disoriented, but I felt it when I lay down. (At least I didn’t have a concussion.) My muscles were weak and spent, going to water and sinking numbly into the down comforter beneath me. I’d be sleeping _well_ that night — and not just because I’d gotten a crushing, stellar workout, or had slept maybe six hours max over the span of the preceding three days. The boogeyman that had haunted the shadows of our life together was finally, _finally_ vanquished, exorcised never to return. Artemis would likely be called to testify at his trial someday, but that might be years from then. No need to worry about it now. 

Completely at peace for the first time in… Cripes, _years_ , I let Artemis peel my tee shirt off, and relaxed under her touch as she straddled the small of my back and went to town on my abused muscles atop the ridiculously comfortable bed in the equally ridiculously comfortable bedroom. 

The master suite was a huge bonus to the house we’d bought — it was a smaller house by comparison to the rest of the McMansions in the neighborhood, being a bit of an older structure that existed before the rest of the subdivision sprang up around it, but it had undergone a good deal of remodeling before getting put up on the market, and the master bedroom had gotten a makeover that would have made the hosts on _Flip or Flop_ proud. The exterior was, as Artemis put it, like a fairy house — and as she nested in the later months of her pregnancy, she took that vibe from the outside of the house and ran with it as she decorated the interior. 

Initially, I was fairly ambivalent about how it turned out overall, more concerned with what would make Artemis and Grayson Player Two (Mary Paula, as we decided) comfortable, and left Artemis solely in charge of the house. I was never one to be picky about my living quarters, anyway. As it all came together, though, I was wholly pleased with the results and _very_ comfortable in the new digs. I had never really felt attached to a specific place before, minus the pride I had taken in my apartment, but I was quickly laying roots in that house and knew I’d be happy to live out my days there, with Artemis, raising our daughter and saving the world together. 

Cheesy, I know. Whatever. 

I sighed appreciatively as Artemis’ fingers worked into my shoulders, strong and soothing, luring me into a state kind of between worlds. I inhaled, feeling her hands as they glided down over my traps, sliding across my pectorals between my skin and the comforter, sweeping her palms back up to massage my neck. She finally laced her fingers in my hair and traced tingling circles into my scalp. I straight-up groaned when she drew her hands down past my shoulders, her grip pressing gently into my sore biceps, squeezing softly around my forearms. My back was next, although she was reserved around the extensive bruising that Crock had left there. 

Dazed, sleepy, totally complacent, my body a thousand pounds and sinking into the bed, I was brought back to real time in the best damn way when Artemis snaked her hands under my weight, her palms passing over my abdomen, seeking lower, closing over my groin through the track pants I wore. I made a bit of an “Mmph” sound, opening my eyes and going from six to noon when I discovered that at some point, Artemis had shed her top. 

“Oh, yay,” I rejoiced aloud, turning over and lifting up as she bowed to meet my lips, shifting to let me get comfortably to my back. She wasted no time getting my bottoms off — and didn’t waste any time swallowing my cock, either. 

I held my breath, pressing my face into the comforter, my back bending into a yogic bow as she drew me deep into her throat, humming, her tongue flickering against my straining length. I _loved_ oral — didn’t matter if I taking or dishing, it was probably my favorite thing on earth. It was all I could do not to cry with joy like a total moron. The muscles of my abdomen shook perceptibly, responding not only to the effort of holding my body in that position under the fatigue that permeated my form, but more positively to the overwhelming waves of pleasure that rocked through me. My hips jerked reflexively, spearing me deeper into her throat, when Artemis torturingly swiveled her tongue around the length of my burgeoning tensity, and I breathlessly tried to apologize, but she just pressed her fingers insistently into my hips, and took me in deeper. I moaned, the sound completely overpowered, as her hands shifted over my buttocks and ran across the small of my back. Stars blotted my vision when she canted, her lips nursing the head of my cock, pushing me maddeningly to the brink. 

She pulled me in one more time, and then lifted up, slowly letting my manhood fall from her lips. I sank down on my back, quivering, my damp erection painful and throbbing, lying desperate for release across my torso, so pronounced it was barely shy of reaching my belly button. Nothing for it, though — she did that for me, I’d hold off on my own happy ending and return the favor. Except _I’d_ take her all the way — all the way through the Mystical Orgasm Gateway, all the way off the edge of the world. And I’d relish the entire process, _savor_ it, even more than I did giving her father the sound curbstomp he deserved — and there was a sort of vindictive glee in the knowledge that barely hours after I sent him off to Belle Reve on a shackled Walk of Shame, his _baby girl_ would be screaming my name while I gave her some face. There was just something _poetic_ about that. 

She tossed her panties, and I pulled her to me by her solid thighs, cupping the perfect curves of her adorable ass (I don’t know how she’s always managed to have the cutest tuchus earthly women ever saw, but she has, and I’ll never budge on that.) I _knew_ what she wanted — much like me, Artemis was a pretty big fan of the old cumming linguistics, and I was always happy to oblige, even exhausted as I was that night. Letting her ride my face didn’t require a lot of hard effort on my end, anyway. Her knees readily bracketed my ears, careful against the sore, injured side of my face. I opened my lips over her vulva, exhaling against her skin, warming her with my outbreath. 

She hissed, letting go a little “Oh, God” on the exhale, rolling her hips, encouraging me to press my tongue against the moisture of her womanhood. I breathed in, slowly, methodically, taking in her scent. I retracted my touch, and just breathed — teasing her, baiting her, daring her to try moving when I tightened my grip on her flawless buttocks. 

“Dick…” she gasped. 

Fun fact — I _loved_ it when she said my name like that. The second she played that card, I was putty in that girl’s hands. (Not that I wasn’t already.) 

I drew a long, slow sweep between the soft, damp petals of her sex, sucking the hardening bloom of her clit into my lips, pulling, beating my tongue against its form. She moaned, first softly, then a little louder, crescendoing until her voice modulated into husky cries that shook me to my center. Vocalizing unabashed with her, I opened my mouth to consume her in her entirety, sinking my tongue into her, feeling the slick heat of her interior as it tightened and fluttered. Then, her fingers knotted in my hair, bracing her weight while she rocked unbridled against my face, smothering me and soaking my lips and chin as she rode my tongue with increasing resolve. 

Muffled by the smooth skin of her thighs, I heard her whimpering, “Please, please…” when she shifted, attempting to force contact with the desired spots, and rather than needle and tease her, I caved, and just swiped my tongue through her essence, giving her what she begged for by flicking my tongue against her clit at a chaingun report. She issued a single, undulating squeal that tapered into a gasping mewl as she climaxed, her orgasm striking powerful and hard, her legs shuddering violently as she fought to avoid squeezing my skull. 

“Sorry — sorry —” she gasped, shivering, weakly sliding down to my chest. 

I yanked her to me and kissed her wildly by way of response. I was _really_ in high gear by then — if I got left hanging for even a microsecond more, I might have fallen prostrate and pleaded my pitiful case like a chump. My cock was agonizingly taut, dribbling onto the skin of my abdominals, stretching, twitching, begging for mercy. 

Thankfully, Artemis recovered quickly, too, and seemed to understand that my desperation was entering the next dimension. She didn’t make me beg, moving over me instead, drawing my legs up to my chest, leaning her weight into them as she pressed her lips against mine. I caught my breath, arching my neck when she maneuvered over me, and bore down into a crouch, drawing my manhood into her ingress, until, with a relieved groan that just sort of popped out of my throat, I was fully embedded in her autonomy. The Amazon. 

It’s a difficult position to master and maintain, as any guru will tell you, but even pregnant, Artemis was fit, and I was _very_ flexible — contortionist levels. And the stretch in my sore hips actually felt _good_ as she braced her weight against my thighs, melding the shape of her belly to the curvature of my legs and easing the pressure on her quads while she rose and fell. Although… it didn’t feel _nearly_ as good as my cock as it slid in and out of her wet, silky heat. God, I loved that position — with my flexibility, it was always an easy one, and it was an undeniable turn-on that all I had to do was let go and get dominated by the most gorgeous woman I’d ever laid eyes on. But this time wasn’t about getting kinky with Artemis taking the reins — she knew how tired, battered, and sore I was, and she was willing to pull the weight and just let me relax and _enjoy_ myself. 

Trust me. I did. 

When I came, it was gradual — amping in intensity, a tsunami of feeling that built and towered before it finally came crashing down. My arms stretched out to either side, my fingers spasmodically fisting handfuls of the comforter, my legs pretzeled flush against my chest, and my mouth fell open to release a series of unhindered screams that might have alarmed the neighbors if they heard them. And when the wave subsided, it left me a gorgeous wreckage in its wake, a gasping heap of slowly unfurling limbs and unwinding muscles, until my softening cock slipped out of her and I lay entirely numb and spent on the surface of the bed. 

Artemis stretched out next to me, her limbs going long and straight like a stretching cat’s, and then rested her head on my shoulder. She kissed my cheek, mindful of the staples there, and whispered a soft, “Thank you,” into my ear. 

I could barely find the oomph to chuff a reply, already swirling down the endless drain of a sleep so deep and peaceful that _nothing_ existed within it outside of a pure, dark tranquility that eased the endless noise in my brain into an absolute silence. I was dimly aware of Artemis covering me with a blanket and leaving a kiss on my forehead, even more dimly conscious of the weight of her arm as it reached over my chest, and the soft heft of Princess’ furry body as she sacked out beside me. Then… Nothing. Just the quiet, gentle embrace of a deep, noiseless sleep. 

******* 

I blinked against the sunlight that poked insistently at my eyelids, popping them open whether I wanted them to or not. My head throbbed with internal hammers that threatened to burst out of my temples. My whole body felt as though I’d slept mashed under a dump truck. My stomach frothed and turned, ceaselessly paddling and warning me to find a toilet or a bucket, _stat._ I groaned, inhaling, anchoring my back to the bed, willing my symptoms to diminish before I went pounding to the bathroom. 

“Here.” 

Artemis’ voice, followed by the feeling of her cool fingers as she swept my sweaty hair off my forehead, then finally the cold condensation on the outside of a glass pressed to the palm of my hand, along with two capsules in my other. 

“Alfred said to take two of these every four hours, or you’re really going to be in for the hangover from hell today,” she said gently. 

I quaffed the pills with a gagging mouthful of water, abruptly thirstier than I could ever remember having been prior. 

“God, I feel like I just got dragged through the nine layers of hell facedown,” I muttered once I finished the water in the glass, pressing a hand to my aching forehead. My stomach turned, slowed, and finally settled somewhat. 

Artemis smiled. “Fights with Sportsmaster will have that effect. Try having one with him that you _lost.”_

“No, thank you,” I said fervently, waking up a little more effectively as I placed my empty glass on the nightstand. “I do not like it, Sam I am.” 

Artemis reached over, and softly clasped my face. “Dick. Seriously. Thank you for what you did.” 

I smiled back at her, briefly forgetting my discomfort, and dropped a kiss on her palm. 

Then we both started, and looked over at the nightstand as my cell phone abruptly buzzed atop its surface. I slid miserably to my back. 

“Ugh, make it go away,” I muttered, turning to my side and burying my face in a pillow. “I don’t want to do things today. Things suck.” 

Artemis chuckled, and squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll answer it, babe.” 

“You can’t make me adult,” I continued to grumble. “You’ll never take me alive.” 

Artemis just laughed, and took the call. There was a pause, and then she reached over to give me a little shake. 

“Hold on,” she said. “Dick, it’s Jack.” 

I turned, and said, “As in Jack Haly?” 

She nodded, and I readily took the phone from her. 

“What’s up, Jack?” I said. “Man, it’s been a while.” 

“Yes, it has,” he agreed readily, his warm, rumbly baritone cheerful, an automatic balm to my wounds. “Got a question for ya, Dick — we’re going to be in Blüdhaven in July for a tour, and… well, I’ve been thinking.” 

“That’s dangerous,” I said lightly, and he laughed. 

“Thing is, we never held a memorial performance on your family’s tenth anniversary,” he said, his tone shifting to one a little more somber. “Honestly… That’s never really sat right with me, and I’d like to fix that this year. So I was thinking that maybe we could put on a show in their memory when we make our stop in Blüdhaven. You know, while we’re local. It’s a little belated, but better late than never.” 

I sat up. “That’s not a bad idea, Jack. It’s actually a decent year to do it — you know I’m having a baby, right?” 

If I said Jack gushed over that, I’d understate the hell out of it. I grinned as he exploded his congratulations through the line. 

“Anyway, I’d love it if you’d perform with us,” said Jack, once he finished unloading his vociferous joy. “Kind of for old time’s sake, and to honor your family’s memory. Would you be up for something like that?” 

My grin widened — honestly, I thrilled at the prospect. I’d missed performing fiercely since the last tour I did with Haly’s a few years before. “Jack, I’d love to.” 

“Oh, Dick, that’s great,” he said. “Have you kept in shape?” 

I assured him that yes, I had, and he went on to give me exact dates — for workouts, choreography sessions, practice, rehearsals, fittings, consultations, so on. Still on the phone with Jack, I quickly ran the dates by Artemis, since the performance was scheduled perilously close to D-Day (her due date), but she waved a hand and readily gave me the green light. Once everything was settled, I hung up with him. 

And then… I relaxed to enjoy a _long_ overdue lazy day at home. After the talk with Jack, and when the efficacy of the medicine at last kicked in, my miseries were mitigated all at once, and I found I was feeling pretty damn good. 

Artemis, cuddling down atop my chest, enthusiastically suggested that we spend the entire day in bed playing video games and binge watching the television series we were behind on, and I agreed with matching enthusiasm. When she headed downstairs to scrounge up breakfast (or brunch in that case, since it was nearing one in the afternoon), allowing me to hang out in the bedroom to catch a few more Z’s beforehand, I was at a zenith of perfect content, indolent and satisfied. 

All was right with the world. 


	23. 12-1-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! <3 
> 
> Oh, man, the last letter... :'( (Not the last chapter, just the last letter!) 
> 
> It's a little schmaltzy, lol. <3 Apologies! 
> 
> Thanks to daisymagick for the beta reading and brainstorming! <3 
> 
> Much love and enjoy!! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> EF <3

_December 1, 2019_

_Dick,_

_Happy Birthday, stud. 23 years old — hardly a Boy Wonder anymore._

_To think six months ago, when you were 22 and a half to the day, it marked the start of probably the happiest stretch of time in my entire life. Guess we could call it our own Summer of 69._

_We finished up the house, minus painting the nursery because we hadn’t settled on a theme yet, on June 1st — and we celebrated not only finishing the house, but my father’s highly overdue incarceration, as well, by going out for a fancy dinner on the river. A bit of a different outing for us — we were a fairly unconventional couple, preferring things a little outside of the romantic norm ( e.g. going to get our palms read — “you will face many changes, love and family will be protected, keep your friends close!” — supernatural tours, geocaching, so on.) Suited me fine, though, that one standard date — I gorged myself on grilled chicken and pineapple and watermelon sorbet, something that disproportionately cracked you up, and then we spent some time tooling around the shops on the waterfront before returning to our completed home. I bought a candle for the house._

_Dick. AHHHH, THE HOUSE._

_I know you’ve heard me gush about this a hundred times, but… I’m just going to gush some more. :P_

_I love that this place looks like something straight out of Pixie Hollow on the outside, with its conglomeration of Tudor and French Provincial architecture, stone work, timber framing. The yard that’s full of all those big, beautiful trees that reach higher than the roof. The flowers that line the walkway, all pinks and yellows and whites. I still can’t believe I live here — that this is my HOME._

_The floors inside the house barely even creak. And when they do, it’s a gentle sigh — a welcoming, friendly sound, soft to the ears, homey and comfortable. And there are TWO floors. Both of which are mine, and belong to the house I live in. Just… Wow. And the wood is so shiny and smooth without even needing to put a lot of effort into it. I could have scrubbed the floors in my mom’s place all day and they’d still have looked waxen and lackluster. The carpets upstairs in Mary’s room and the hallway are so soft I feel my feet sink into them if I stand still. The light comes in through the windows in all the right places — I don’t even need to turn on the lamps until it starts getting dark out. The air conditioning works, and I can program it, and — oh my God I HAVE CENTRAL AIR! Not a loud, rattly unit hanging halfway out of a window, blowing fusty, lukewarm air, ready to go splat on the pavement below at any second! Then there’s the total Yuppie-ville back deck with the pergola that has wisteria growing all over it and the spiffy standing fire pit. (I call it Yuppie-ville, but I love it.) The previous owners left their patio furniture, which we liked so much we didn’t bother to replace it. When the weather is warm enough, there’s nothing better than resting on that surprisingly comfy wicker sofa with a book._

_While I’m in the business of gushing, I’m just going to gush a second more about the bathtub and its jacuzzi jets (oh… gush, water, jets, bathtub… punderbar! Let me hold up an applause sign…) More than one back rub was enjoyed in that tub between the two of us, not to mention plenty of Sexy Funtimes. And it just keeps getting better and better — the bed doesn’t squeak like a dying cat if you dare shift on its surface, and the sheets are more than 150 thread count. (Yes, 150 thread count sheets exist… they’re delightfully cheap and not so delightfully scratchy.)_

_Just… stupid stuff I never thought I’d enjoy, as a kid in the Bowery and then as a college chick surviving on student loans._

_That I started work with Drake Industries after I graduated in the middle of May only amped the excitement of that time. One paycheck was worth almost TEN of my mother’s disability checks — and I was pulling that in on my own. It was more money that I’d ever dreamed of making by hauling my own butt up by my bootstraps, and Jack told me that even if Tim hadn’t brought me to his attention, he would happily have sharked me off the street or from any other company, the formidable Wayne Enterprises included, to come work for him. God, I love my job — there’s such a sense of peace and calm about it, an orderly serenity and established rhythm and routine, when my life is anything but tranquil and orderly nowadays. Now, as you know, in the beginning days of working there, home life was peaceful, work life was peaceful, my whole existence was peaceful… I already miss those days, and they weren’t even a year ago._

_I cleave to that time like a prison inmate does to thoughts of his family, the outside world. They keep me warm on cold nights, ease my loneliness on companionless evenings, keep the spring in what might be a heavy, leaden step, pique my dwindling appetite. It was a time so perfect that, for all I know, it was just a very pleasant dream, and wasn’t even real._

_I’d go to work, translating business documents and lending assistance to Jack with his pet arts and humanities projects, goofing around with less somber co-workers (what a blessing to get to know Tam Fox as well as I have — the girl is a GEM), and earning more money than I could even wrap my brain around, performing tasks I could comfortably do in my sleep. You almost always worked late, both on security jobs and your… Night job, wink-wink, but you always got up and made it a point to prep some breakfast for me and have some coffee while I ate it before seeing me off as I left for work. In the freaking Audi that Bruce got me as a baby gift. (What a rich dude — buying me a baby gift in the form of a freaking luxury vehicle. :P Lord.)_

_When I’d get home from work, we’d head outside for a run by the river, although as the weeks went on, I flagged more and more, opting to just walk through the majority of our jaunts together. You always eased your paces, jogging at the speed I set, walking when I did, never once teasing me or complaining about how SLOW I’d gotten. When we got home, we’d cook dinner (usually something Jason or Alfred had tasked you with), being stupid together as we prepped whatever we were attempting to make, sometimes succeeding, sometimes bombing the entire thing epically._

_We ran most weekdays, every Wednesday taking a different route to the riverside plaza to check out what food truck had set up shop that day. No cooking on Wednesdays, became the rule! We liked the hot dog truck the best — ugh. Our poor arteries, but the heaven we experienced was worth the bodily abuse, we agreed. We often indulged in Sparky’s Ice Cream, too — always amazing, and an equal heart attack risk._

“ _Alfred’s going to scream gestational diabetes if he catches you with that,” you chuckled, indicating my extravagantly caloric ice cream cone._

“ _I won’t tell Alfred if you won’t,” I said._

_The summer festival on the river, the annual one that serves as the counterpart to Gotham’s Woodland Lights festival, invited a bunch of bands who performed late into the night that year, and I actually stayed up past my bodily enforced bedtime to enjoy one particular band that you and I both liked and were thrilled to see in person. They busted off a couple of eighties’ tunes, covers that were a bonus to their usual material, and I was just kind of kicking back and listening with a bottle of water when you got up, announced that you’d be right back, and amped the romance level to approximately volume infinity._

_You told me once that the day after the orgasm seminar, you had a brief moment where you considered rushing back to my mom’s place to blast Peter Gabriel under my window in an effort to express your feelings. I had laughed, although I was charmed by that confession._

“ _That’s the most romantic thing that no one’s ever done for me,” I said, feigning complete seriousness, and you promised to fix that someday._

_I noticed, sitting there on the blanket we’d spread out on the sand of the river’s shore, that the band had started up a (truly inspired) version of “In Your Eyes,” and when you returned, you were grinning in a most urchin-like fashion, obviously pleased with yourself._

“ _Well. Most romantic thing someone’s officially done for you?” you asked._

_I stared. “Wait, is THAT where you went? To go ask them to play this?”_

_You nodded, oozing exuberance and self-satisfaction in the most adorable way. “It is! And they were thrilled to play it for us! They’re VERY nice.” You paused. “I mean, everyone’s nice when you flash your wallet. But they’re really very nice.”_

_I shook my head incredulously, chuckling. “Money talks…”_

“ _My second superpower, lots of money,” you said happily, and extended a hand. “Dance, lady fair?”_

_I laughed, joking that I shouldn’t be dancing in such delicate condition, but I got up, and obliged you by allowing you to pull me into something of a high school prom night sway — perhaps some steps below professional ballroom dancing, but a step above the drunkards flopping oafishly around us, at least. I ended up just hugging you around your shoulders, my face pillowed against your chest, listening to your heart and the music, the night balmy and periwinkle blue around us, dotted with fireflies in the trees on the shoreline, the lights of the city reflected on the violet water._

_We walked home, unhurriedly, hand in hand, chatting about everything and nothing, and got home to cuddle in the air conditioning with Peach before going to bed. We didn’t… you know, get intimate, but… we didn’t need to, either._

_I took maternity leave three weeks before D-Day, just after we visited Haly’s and Uncle Rick together. You were slated to finish school… Well, a few weeks from now, actually, and were on summer break. And since as Nightwing you concentrated hardest on decrypting the big man’s machines, you went on leave from the team otherwise to focus on the baby for a while._

_More lovely days, however few they were. Quiet, lazy, fulfilling. We worked on the nursery, watched some new television series, binged on some video games, did a lot of pregnant couple’s yoga, stuck specifically to walking along the riverfront (with even your energetic self remaining endlessly patient with me as I hit paces so slow they damn near went backwards, Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup in the dead of winter), enjoyed the baby shower at Wayne Manor with our friends and family. Do you remember the night you sat cross-legged on the side of that jacuzzi bathtub, in your boxers and tee-shirt, just looking so goddamn cute as you read out loud to me from Rose Madder while I soaked my aching back and stomach? That sticks out to me as one of the most contented moments in my life. I was so ready to welcome Mary into our little twosome by then, no longer nervous or frightened. You felt the same, shaking with excitement rather than nerves when we vented our elation to one another. All was right with the world._

_The night of the memorial show in honor of your family with Haly’s… Your ENERGY outwardly reflected that same joy and contentment. The performance interviews were nothing but effervescing joy, all pure and unadulterated happiness. Before you disappeared to perform, once I’d finished helping you get ready, you snapped my favorite photo of us to share on your social media pages, the selfie that I still dwell over almost nightly, a nostalgic crone with a beloved personal treasure._

_And then…_

_Well, quoting our favorite neighborhood Merc with a Mouth…_

“ _Life is an endless series of trainwrecks with only brief, commercial-like breaks of happiness. This had been the ultimate commercial break. Which meant… it was back to our regularly scheduled programming.”_

_I think on some level… we both knew it couldn’t last. To appreciate an 11, you have to be given a -5 from time to time, I guess. Or a neverending train of -5’s to TRULY appreciate your one, single 11._

_Thank you for providing me an 11 even once in my life. I honestly never thought I’d be happy again after Wally — EVER. I never thought I’d see those fabled halcyon days of roseate joy at its zenith, and had stopped even hoping to. But I did, Dick — and I will never deny the role you played in that. Again… thank you._

_Babe… I miss you. I just miss you so much._

_Please come back._

_I love you._

_Love,_

_Artemis_


	24. 7-13-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, everybody...
> 
> Hope all's well! <3 
> 
> IT'S... THE FINAL FLUFF O_O
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beloved daisymagick for her awesome beta work and just for being a generally awesome human being, as well! <3 
> 
> Much love, y'all, and happy reading!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_July 13, 2019_

_Dick_

I blinked at the computer screen, and felt everything around me just seem to slide into place — I practically _heard_ the click. 

These were it — undeniably, the file folders I sought on Luthor’s machines. The ones that would tie him to the trafficking — metahuman and weapons alike. 

Well, okay, I didn’t have any _hard_ proof — _yet._ But everything about this little series of carefully organized documents was fishy. Something was rotten in the state of Linux. 

The thing was, every file was in a language I couldn’t remotely comprehend — symbols and figures unfamiliar to my eye, and there were _reams_ of files transcribed and saved in this bizarre note. Running it through every translator script I’d ever written did no good, and neither did any arbitrary translation tools. I figured it was an alien language — now, I knew a smattering of Kryptonian thanks to Clark, but this was definitely _not_ Kryptonian, nor was it the language of Rann or Thenagar, and it wasn’t Rimborrian, either. 

I considered. I knew this would have to leave my hands at this point — time to fork it over to the League’s extraterrestrial linguistics nerds. Surely some erudite scholar in one of the Lantern Corps would be able to figure out what the hell these documents actually contained. 

I bit back a sound of frustration. I’d found it, only to go splat into one more freaking brick wall. Breaking into Luthor’s personal machines had been every bit as big a pain in my can as monitoring his network traffic had been. I was shocked my hair wasn’t gray or that I hadn’t plucked my pate completely bald. Finally breaking the implementations on the machines felt like an accomplishment worthy of breaking open a goddamn bottle of champagne, but my celebratory high had guttered swifty. The files on the machines I’d checked out prior to the sketchy PC had all been painfully innocuous — and painfully dull, as well. 

The potentially incriminating machine, the one with the documents in the alien hand, was actually none other than the computer in his personal office at the Lex-Corp headquarters in Metropolis. Well. Yay! Hiding in plain sight, apparently, always an effective evasive maneuver, but not in this case, and _thank God_. If I had to fight with massive encryptions that by themselves would take trillions of years to break (the idea with this sort of thing is to break the implementations, not the encryptions themselves — attempting the latter, well… you may as well make a wheel square and expect it to roll) for even a week longer, I’d throw myself off the trapeze. Sure, that might result in the unspeakable worse-than-death horrors of paraplegia or quadriplegia, but I _had_ to wonder if even those phobias that squicked me out from time to time wouldn’t be preferable to having my brain put through a meatgrinder upwards of eleven hours a day. 

(Seeing my Uncle Rick the way he was kind of did that to me. I wasn’t sure which fate was more unkind, but as it stood, personally speaking I’d probably take death for five hundred, thanks.) 

I messaged Bruce to bring him up to speed, saved the files to a thumb drive, and then secured everything to leave. I had an hour before I needed to be at the Blüdhaven Metrodome for the memorial performance with Haly’s, and given the traffic at that time of day, attraction traffic notwithstanding, I needed to get moving. 

I had set up shop in my former apartment — I didn’t want such sensitive items anywhere near my actual home, where they risked the safety of my girlfriend and soon-to-arrive daughter. Talking to my old landlord, Hank, he was happy to renew the lease on a month-to-month basis for as long as I needed. When asked, I explained I just needed office space away from home, and that I felt comfortable there (both true.) Hank kindly lowered the price, since I wouldn’t be living there — a generous move. I asked him to keep my full name out of his books. To my knowledge, Luthor wasn’t aware of who I was any more than Sportsmaster had been, but you can never be too careful. 

Bruce had wanted me to work in the Watchtower or the Bat Cave, but when I reminded him of the incidents of New Year’s 2011, he was a little more malleable to my case. While the Watchtower used to be run by Leaguers only, it had gotten to be too much upkeep for such a comparatively small group, and the League had begun, over time, to bring on outside employees. They went through a careful application and vetting process, but I didn’t want to come to work one day to find that all of Luthor’s machines had been ganked right out of my office and some employees had up and gone poof at about the same time. 

As for the Bat Cave, it was dim and cold and uncomfortable — the end. Not that I wanted to pass up the opportunity to spend extra time with Alfred, but I would be working some long-ass hours on these machines, and I wanted to be comfortable while I did so, not freezing my nuts off in the middle of July and potentially contracting another unseasonal bout of bronchitis. 

It occurred to me as I locked the door to the apartment-turned-office that I would pass Marjorie’s bar on my way to the Metrodome, and then that I hadn’t been to visit Marjorie in a century. Jeez, not since the fabled Night of the Semi-Public Orgasm. She likely had gotten all my life events from the news, but I should have gone in at least once to share them with her. She was a friend by then, and oftentimes, a confidant, as well. It wasn’t fair to leave her out of the loop like that. 

I didn’t have time to stop in before the performance, but there would be time after. I raised Marjorie’s bar’s landline on my cell. 

“My God, hot stuff, it’s been a long time,” she said, laughing. “You owe granny Marjorie a lot more than a phone call, I’d say.” 

“I do,” I agreed. “Look, I have a show tonight, but would you be up for hosting me and a couple of pals when I’m through?” 

“Oh, honey, you bet. I miss your damn face. Listen, though — are you bringing that adorable pregnant lady friend of yours with you?” she asked. 

I laughed. “We’re kind of a package deal these days. I take it you’ve been keeping an eye on the Gotham newsreel.” 

She laughed. “Well, when you don’t show up in my bar for a few months, I might or might not wonder and worry. I have to say, I had something of a feeling this would happen when you brought Artemis in with you back in the fall… That amount of Fireball usually only leads to one thing.” 

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?” I teased. 

“Fornication. And little accidents running around _because_ of said fornication.” 

I grinned. “Damn, Granny Marjorie. You _crass_.” 

“You got that right — have you learned _nothing_ about your honorary grandma? You _have_ been gone for too long,” she said, and I laughed. 

“Well, I think on my end this whole Artemis thing was a long time coming, Fireball or no,” I said. “Anyway, of course I’ll bring her with, providing she’s up for it and you know, not yawning by nine o’clock. Think you can magic up some sort of virgin cocktail for her?” 

“I sure can, and it’ll be a pleasure,” Marjorie agreed. “See you later?” 

“It’s a promise,” I said warmly, and after we said goodbye, I hurried the rest of the way to the Metrodome. 

******* 

Bad dress, good show. That’s how the saying goes. I was just happy that nets were used at least for practices and rehearsals. 

During the final dress rehearsal the day before, Irving mistimed a pull-over shoot and nearly knocked me off the catch trap, and then Alyssa slipped and fell on her butt atop the platform after a return. All of this barely a minute into the choreographed routine, too. Then, probably due to being frazzled over her embarrassing butt-plant, she bonked the second part of the flexus-flexus when I caught her for it, kicking me _hard_ in the face as she swung her legs to tuck them between her arms. She lost momentum on the twist and flopped fish-like to hang straight-backed from my grip. I finally released her gently to the net beneath, laughing, unable to help myself. 

“Alyssa, what did I doooooo!” I lamented facetiously, clasping my face (she really didn’t hurt me all that badly.) She fell to her back on the net, and shook her head, bellowing laughter and apologies. 

Thankfully, the back-to-back splits angel returns (not the least complicated maneuver) went well, both when Alyssa performed the first with me as the catcher, and then when I executed the same move with Irving. 

“Literally pitching and catching,” he heaved as we zoomed through the air for the mount, “you’re just lucky you look like a girl from some angles, Dickie-boy!” 

Except then I damn near slipped off the catch trap since I laughed so hard he about lost his grip on me. 

One might think I’d be nervous after such a demoralizing dress, but I actually felt a hundred percent confident and excited. Honestly, I never got stage fright — the shouts and applause of the crowd, that contagious _excitement,_ all those loudly vocalized thrills were like a shot of straight euphoria, the psychotropic high infusing my body and spirit, all of it putting me in such an enraptured state that I was sure the glories of heaven couldn’t hope to touch it. I never felt more vital, more _alive,_ more in _love_ with life, or more in tune with my body’s own power than I did when I rushed through the air, defying gravity, death, biology, logic, _everything,_ eliciting the ecstatic charge from the audience as I _flew_ with all the grace and ease of an avian. I’ve hitched rides with Superman, Blue Beetle, the Hawks, and so many more supers capable of actual flight — but even joy rides on flying metas never touched the feeling of flying by the skin of my own teeth as I leapt from the fly bar to sail overhead, never to touch the ground. 

I was humming with joyful anticipation as I chalked and taped my hands, careful around the tight sleeves of the costume. I glanced down at it, checking for any fit issues, and loosed a sigh. Really, the only times being a little less hung would be nice were when I had to wear those damn Spanx costumes that left nothing — including the awkward shape of my balls — to the imagination. Ah, well, the whole skin-tight ensemble was artfully punctuated with blacklight paint that would glow for certain parts of the performance (pretty cool — the show was inspired by supernovae, representing the light given off in death), and Irving was stuck in the same thing, anyway, and that dude was hung like a moose. 

Artemis showed up at the door to my trailer, and after a moment of surprise and an overjoyed greeting (I hadn’t expected to see her before the show), she helped me paint the luminescent silver leaf over tresses of my hair and finish the makeup application — not my strong suit. Normally Alyssa helped with that part of things, since she had a flair for it, but she was occupied with Irving, who was even more hopeless with the stuff than I was. If not for Artemis, I would have missed my mom, who would have filled the slot for makeup artist, even more than I already did. I reveled in the feeling of my girlfriend’s light touch and the soft, minty scent of her perfume as she applied the glow-in-the-dark face paint, glad she was there. 

When we were done, Artemis stated I looked “a bit like Puck and Bowie’s lovechild on his way to a rave party,” and, laughing, I took a picture of the two of us to share on my social media pages. She excitedly hissed, “Break a leg,” and hugged and kissed me one more time before I hurried out to convene with Irving and Alyssa. 

Bad dress, _flawless_ show. 

Everything went off entirely without a single hitch — the performances, the special effects, the music, the light show, all of it came together _perfectly._ I felt wholly _afire_ as I performed the routine with Irving and Alyssa, every muscle moving with matchless fluidity, every aerial trick executed with seamless perfection, my instincts spot on and carrying me to what would be the performance of my life. As I completed my last feat, a signature move that my mother invented and I tweaked to become my own, and landed on the mount for the final time, Alyssa and Irving to either side of me, I felt anchored only to the air, the platform under my feet transitory and unimportant, my body weightless, buoyant, ascendant. Even as I grinned, my chest heaving and heart hammering with both exertion and excitement, tears streaked over the makeup on my cheeks, doubtless leaving tracks, none of that mattering as I silently remembered my family so profoundly I _swore_ they were there on that platform with us. This was a performance in their honor — and if they weren’t honored, well, I would never get on that trapeze again. 

The performance interviews all went just as swimmingly, all smiles and loud laughter and the occasional moment of tears when talking about my family. I missed them that night — but it was probably the first time since I’d lost them that I truly appreciated Alfred’s quote. _To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die._

Buzzing, drunk without drinking, high without chemicals, I was practically floating back to my trailer to wash the makeup off, rinse the silverleaf out of my hair, shower the sweat off, and change out of the Puck-and-Bowie-lovechild rave ensemble to head to Marjorie’s after the interviews. As I drifted my way to my destination, two seconds from leaping into a box-kick in my overload of surrealistic joy, Tim, standing over by the exit close to the outdoor concessions stands, caught sight of me, parted ways with our friends that he stood with, and came jogging over to me. 

“Hey, Baby Bird,” I greeted him, approaching the trailer door. 

“Hey, Big Bird,” he replied readily, and then his stance shifted. “Do you, uh… Do you have a minute?” 

“Sure, what’s up?” I asked. 

He glanced around, worming his lip. 

“Could we talk in there?” he said, indicating the trailer. 

“Yeah, come on in,” I said. “Although… considering the fact that we’ve shared locker rooms, I’m taking that as an invitation to go ahead and just get changed.” I squirmed. “I’m going to need a testical retrieval operation after this. Can’t have that, Artemis is already talking about having more kids.” 

He laughed. “For real?” 

I laughed, too. “She just said she wanted to have kids kind of close together and she wants more than one, so if she’s going to stick to her original life plans… it’s something to think about, I guess. I told her we could talk more about it after we’ve had this one.” I led the way inside, and pointed at the mini-fridge. “So Jack has this thing about making sure I’m hydrated — if you want anything, help yourself. Pretty much whatever you can think of is in there.” 

“Any sort of non-age appropriate libations?” he cracked. 

I grinned. “Why, Tim, are you encouraging the provision of alcohol to a minor?” 

He grinned back. “I’m not a minor, I’m eighteen!” 

“But you’re still underage. I’ll get in trouble.” I got him a Coke. “Be a pal, enjoy your age-appropriate drink.” 

He popped it open with mock resentment, but didn’t sip at it. He looked suddenly intensely thoughtful. At his expression, I decided my unhappy nuts could wait, and not to start taking the Puck/Bowie makeup off. I sat down at the little makeup table. 

“Tim, whatever’s on your mind, I’m guessing it’s _sit down and talk about it_ material. I mean, since you kind of look like someone just ran over your dog. What’s going on?” I gave the other chair a nudge. 

He sat down, and stared at the surface of the table. 

“Umm… I’ve just kind of been… Going through some stuff lately. I mean, I’ve been thinking a lot,” he said a little awkwardly. 

“About what?” 

There was a _long_ period of quiet, and when Tim spoke, he did so slowly. 

“So… I’m guessing… you probably already know this about me. Or… maybe knew it before I did, even.” 

“Knew what?” I probed. 

(I might have asked, but I had a pretty solid idea of where this was going.) 

“I think… I think I might have the same inclinations toward guys that I do girls,” Tim said, and then sighed heavily. 

I tilted my head to the side. “Meaning…” 

He gave me a weak smile through a pale face. “Dick, come on. Don’t make me spell it out.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, worried at a hangnail. “This is hard enough as it is.” 

“Oh, Tim, what’s hard about it?” I asked, reaching over and giving him a shake. “You don’t need to be afraid to come talk to me about this stuff, you know that. I’m _never_ going to judge — look, I wouldn’t care if you came in here telling me the sheep over at Bay Area Farms suddenly stole your wool.” 

He glowered at me. 

“Okay, maybe not the time to goof around,” I said placatingly. “Sorry. But look, dude — I mean it. This sort of thing… You don’t need to be afraid to approach me with it.” 

“That’s not what I’m giving you the Look of a Thousand Deaths for,” said Tim. “That pun deserves a _bleating._ ” 

I laughed. “Don’t make me go on the _lamb,_ now.” After a moment of shared mirth, I sobered, and gently said, “Anyway, I take it… this is you coming out?” 

He was quiet a moment. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah, it is. I’ve… thought about this a lot. Before now, I mean. I’ve _really_ thought about it. Just…” He looked up at the ceiling of the trailer. “I’ve always kind of had _man crushes,_ you know? Always. Like more than I can count, and possibly more than I’ve had even on girls. And I never thought of them as anything other than me admiring guys I wanted to be like, or be friends with, or whatever. But when I thought that maybe they weren’t just, uh, _man crushes_ , and I might actually be bi… Dick, it was like everything just kind of _fell into place._ Like everything about myself prior started to _finally_ make sense. Like how I felt about certain people, why I reacted to them the way I did, why past relationships didn’t work out, that sort of thing.” 

I nodded. “Sure.” 

I won’t lie. I was warmed all the way through that Tim trusted me enough to talk to me about something so major. And in retrospect, I couldn’t say I was overly surprised by his confession — Tim had kind of pinged my radar for some time by then, months, possibly _years,_ even. That’s not necessarily the most _delicate_ topic to broach with someone, so I hadn’t probed him about it, but I _had_ wondered. As had Artemis (and yes. We’d conversed about it plenty.) 

“And… I think… I can thank Jason for helping me figure myself out,” Tim said, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

_Ha! I knew it!_

I inclined my head, trying not to outwardly show my triumph. “You mean…” 

He looked unhappily at me, his face bleached of color minus a loud flush in his cheeks. “Yeah. Not only do I like boys, I, uh… I like Jason.” He tore savagely at the hangnail, drawing blood. “As in, _like_ Jason. Meaning romance, Valentine’s Day, hearts and flowers, long walks down the beach _like_ Jason. And it isn’t just… It’s not just boyhood hero worship, either. I’ve gotten to know him pretty well over the last year or so, and… I know it’s not just that. I think it’s the real thing. You know…” Here, his expression softened into a smile, “like you and Artemis.” 

I smiled, warming again. “Well. Would it be too soon to say I’m not all that shocked?” 

He looked up at me. “Oh, man. Has it really been that obvious?” 

My smile spread into a grin. “Well, think of it like the parents who know their kid is gay, bi, et cetera before they even do. And to that end… let me ask you a quick question, did you pick up on vibes between Artemis and me even before _we_ figured things out?” 

He grinned back. “Well… okay, yeah, I did.” 

“I wasn’t real sure if I was right, though,” I said, “and I didn’t really want to just _ask_ you about it. Tim, listen. I know this is big — _scary_ big. It’s never easy to make heads or tails of this sort of thing, and it can take people _years_ to figure it out sometimes. And even when they do, outwardly identifying themselves can be really intimidating, too.” I reached over and clasped his wrist. “I know how much it had to take to come talk to me about this, and… Tim, I’m honored. Really honored. Thank you.” 

He smiled. “Well. Blame it on the fact that you’re kind of my honorary big brother, I guess?” 

I grinned. “So I’m Jason’s brother, too… What, does that mean we’re House Lannister now?” 

He laughed. “House Lannister, LGBTQ Edition.” He paused, and looked at me, an expression of unfiltered hope in his blue eyes. “Speaking of that, um… so you got vibes from me… you didn’t happen to, uh…” 

“Pick up on any from Jason?” I helpfully supplied. 

He nodded. 

“You know, a bit,” I said thoughtfully, scratching at the hot, itchy makeup on my face. “The thing about Jason with this sort of thing, though, is he can be a little hard to read. Boils down to him having ninety-nine problems.” 

He nodded, and sighed. “Dick, I don’t even know what team he bats for.” 

I grinned. “Well, I can help you there — I know from the horse’s mouth he falls into the omni, pan area of the spectrum.” 

Tim brightened endearingly. “Really?” 

“Oh, yeah, you’re good there,” I said, warmed through all over again. “And listen, Tim — you can totally talk to him about this. Even if he _didn’t_ bat for the same team, he’d be completely cool with it. If there’s one person on this earth who won’t judge you for a single thing — no matter what it is — it’s Jay. And he’s… I don’t know, rough around the edges, maybe, but dude, he’s got the best heart of anyone I’ve ever known.” 

A fond look came over his face. “This is true.” 

“Here’s the kicker, though — you’ll probably need to be the one to bring it up to him,” I warned. “Even if he’s sleeping with one of your used tee-shirts balled up under his head and isn’t washing his left hand ever again because you happened to brush yours against it, he will never come out and say so. Like… _never._ Again, ninety-nine problems.” 

Tim laughed, a little nervously. “Well, no pressure, then.” 

I reached over, and again, squeezed his wrist. “No pressure for real, man. Like I said, either way, Jason will be totally cool with it. And listen, regardless of how it turns out, trust me — you’ll feel better for having told him. Voice of experience.” 

Tim looked heartened. “Well, maybe I’ll tell him tonight.” 

“Go for it!” I said exuberantly, unable to restrain my swelling happiness for my honorary kid brother. “You’re Robin, the Boy Wonder, Tim Drake of the venerated Drake family of Gotham — you’re royalty! You’re also, forgive me a momentary dip on the Kinsey scale, a damn nice-looking fellow, if I do say so. You’ve got nothing to worry about — Jason will be lucky.” 

I was surprised when Tim jumped up and hugged me. I happily hugged him back. 

“Dick, thanks,” he said when he backed away, all smiles. “You know, I knew you’d be okay with it — I’m _so_ glad I told you.” 

“I’m glad you told me, too, man,” I said. “But guess what — you’ve told me… the only natural next step is to go spark your gentleman friend. Tell Jason how you feel.” 

“On it,” he said, and rose to head to the door. He shook out his shoulders. “Phew. Well, here goes… Again, though, Dick — thank you, seriously. I mean it. You’re the best.” 

I smiled at him. “Nah. Thank _you_ for sharing that with me. Again, it was an honor. You don’t need to hide anything from _any_ of us, though, Tim — we’re your friends. You know we love you as you are, right?” 

He smiled. “Well, not to get all sentimental or anything here, but… I love you, too, BBBFF.” 

“BBBFF?” 

“Big Brother Best Friend Forever.” 

“…Oh, God. You’re a Bronie.” 

“Now, don’t go making that accusation so lightly!” 

I laughed. “So I sent out a text — are you going to Marjorie’s, LBBFF?” 

He chuckled. “Yeah. I might actually try getting Jason on his own once we’re there. I mean… it’s not overly romantic, just kind of pulling him aside like that, but I don’t think I can wait long enough to come up with some cheesy way to break it to him, so…” He shrugged. 

“Well, maybe ask Granny Marjorie to help you out,” I said. “The woman’s a wizard in pretty much every sense of the word. Anyway — I _have_ to get this makeup off. It’s hot as balls and it gives me zits. Plus this costume is disintegrating my nutsack faster than steroids. See you there?” 

Tim laughed. “You could use a shower, too, so yeah, I’ll leave you to it.” 

“Hint taken. See you, dude.” 

Looking as vibrant and aerial as I felt, he left the trailer, and I got cleaned up and changed. 

I locked the door behind me as I left, and then hurried to give Zitka a good pat before heading out. I kept to the more subtle ways to get back to the sidewalks to avoid crowds and conversations, by then anxious to catch up with everybody at Marjorie’s. 

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. A text, from Artemis. 

_Hey, I’m going to head to Marjorie’s. Assuming you fell in the toilet since you took all year in your trailer. :P_

I smiled, excited to see her, and equally excited to see how Tim’s confession would go. 

_On my way now, love you <3, _ I sent. 

I’d barely clicked the send command when the phone buzzed again, and I frowned when I saw the screen. A call, from Hank, the landlord. 

I answered. 

“Hey, uh, hey, Dick,” he said. 

My frown deepened at the tone of his voice. Slightly unsteady, a little uncertain, obviously upset. 

“Hey, Hank, what’s up?” I asked. 

“C-could you come to the apartment? Just for a minute?” He paused, then cleared his throat. “The toilet’s spraying water like a s-son of a bitch and I can’t seem to get it fixed.” 

My steps slowed a little. _God damn it, Wally, I thought we were through this already!_ I aimed that thought skyward, my eyes the same, calming down. Hank wigged out about even _small_ things. An exploding toilet had to send him screeching into the Nevernever like the devil was after him. 

“Did you call the plumber?” I asked. 

“Yeah, uh, can’t raise anyone. I’ve tried. Would you be up for helping an old man out, here?” 

Well, Marjorie’s wasn’t going anywhere, I figured, and the old guy needed my help. A leaking toilet likely wouldn’t take more than half an hour to deal with, anyway. I thanked my lucky stars that I’d set up shop in the garret bedroom, well off the floor, safe from leaks. 

“Sure, I’ll be there in a minute,” I said cheerfully. “I’m actually just up the street. Don’t drown, I won’t be long.” 

“Appreciate it.” 

“No problem.” 

“Hey, Dick —” 

I paused. 

“N-never… Never mind, actually. See you shortly.” 

“Yep, see ya.” 

I texted Artemis to let her know I’d be a little late to Marjorie’s, and then made my way to the apartment building. Heading up the steps and letting myself in, I paused at the threshold. 

The apartment was completely silent. Not a single light was on, either. I flicked on the overhead lights, and looked around. Emptiness and total quiet. Nothing and no one to be found. 

“Hank?” I called. 

Wondering if Hank had ducked out to grab some parts, I headed toward the bathroom, my confusion mounting when I realized there was no sound of running water. I opened the bathroom door. The toilet stood in its accustomed spot, polished white, still, completely dry, gleaming in the light from the main area. I turned on the bathroom light, and opened the lid. Nothing. The tank appeared fine, too. 

I wondered momentarily if Hank had fixed the toilet already and left, or more logically, if he possibly forgot to tell me that he needed my help with a leaky commode in an entirely different apartment. Hank was a pal by then, and I’d helped him out a lot around the building throughout the years. It made plenty of sense that he’d call me to lend a hand if he couldn’t raise a plumber (arguably likely on a Saturday), and given that he got himself into a tizzy over even the minutest things imaginable, it made equal sense that he’d forget to tell me it wasn’t even my apartment he needed help with. 

But a quieter, more intrinsic voice breathed to me from the recesses of my mind, the old words and voice of Admiral Ackbar — 

_It’s a trap —_

And then a knock fell on the door, _shave-and-a-haircut,_ loud and startling. Hank’s signature knock. I relaxed. 

_Oh, there he is,_ I thought, relieved, leaving the bathroom to cross the main area of the apartment. 

I opened the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUNNNNN XD


	25. 7-13-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, all...
> 
> Hope all's well! <3 ^_^ Dropping this early since I know I left the last on an annoying cliffhanger, lol. XD
> 
> WARNING! CAVEAT! PLEASE READ! <3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING -- much violence ahead. Proceed with extreme caution!
> 
> This was... NOT enjoyable. At all. I was in a bad mood the entire time I worked on this. >.< Still, PARTS of it were fun... I guess? *sigh* Okay, maybe not. :P 
> 
> MANY MANY THANKS, ALL MY HUGS AND LOVE, AND A FREE KITTEN TO MY BELOVED ZOELEO FOR HER INCREDIBLE BETA WORK. <3 You are amazing, dearest! <3 This wouldn't be even CLOSE to what it is now without your insight and help! <3 ^_^
> 
> I won't say happy reading for obvious reasons... but... well, okay, happy reading. :D
> 
> Much love, y'all! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_July 13, 2019_

_Lawrence_

Belle Reve can fuck itself. 

Like bend itself over and go elbows-deep fuck itself. 

I’d been there barely over a damn month and I’d already had maybe twenty losers trying to force me to suck the root or grab my ankles. Well, one of them sucked his buddy’s root while I gripped the back of his head. Nice try, candyass. Word of mouth got around and the indecent proposals tapered off, but then some dumbfuck greased my soap with castor oil so it’d slip right out of my hand in the shower. The ages old “Don’t drop the soap!” shit. Three jumped me buck naked in that communal shower, but after the incident that landed me in Belle Reve in the first place (goddamn fuckface Nightwing), I’d learned my lesson. No sandbagging. 

I took the little asshole ringleader after laying his pals out to dry and put his face halfway through the tile wall of the communal shower. He had about as many teeth left as I did (goddamn fuckface Nightwing) when I was done with him. 

I spent a week in the hole for that little stunt, but it didn’t bother me. I liked the hole. At least I didn’t have to deal with morons talking my ears off. Nothing like being in the middle of a really good, vivid daydream, tearing Nightwing’s head off with my bare hands and shitting down his neck, when all of a sudden, “Yo, Crock! Got some cigarettes on ya?” 

Fuck off. 

Unlike most of the inmates back at Belle Reve, I, in general, didn’t like company — unless that company was a hot little ticket sucking my dick. Otherwise, people just got in my way and I never gave a fuck what any of them had to say, anyway. Didn’t mean they didn’t try talking me up in the pen — _Wah, wah, I have a giiiiirrrrlfriend back home, she’s so beautiful, I miss her soooooooo much._

You know, if that dumbass hadn’t set such a store by some crusty skank back home, he probably wouldn’t be in the clink. Just saying. That shit makes you stupid. 

Look, I know the drill. I’ve got a wife. But Paula was deadly in her prime, a natural assassin, someone I could trust to have my back if things went down the shitter. It only made sense to tie the knot and make a partnership of the fact that we commonly worked together and boned a lot. She was hot as hell back when, believe you me. And trust me — that bitch was capable when put to the task. Made the sex fucking _dynamite._ But… go figure, rather than honing her impressive skills, _poison_ was her cup of tea. I never ate or drank a thing she put in front of me, especially after she swelled up and had those kids. I wouldn’t have put it past her to slip some nasty-ass toxin on me that would have me shitting my tighty-whiteys and drowning in my own puke before morning. We disagreed a bit on how to raise the brats. Motherhood made Paula soft. Dumb. Sentimental. Fatherhood _should_ have made me proud — but those girls have never been anything but total embarrassments to my name. Boils on my ass, making me look bad, spreading Paula’s maudlin shit to me by association like some kind of weird disease. 

You get a rep for being soft as an old man’s balls, and you’re dead or out of a job in my line of work. Or a cripple, in wifey’s case. 

Anyway, I was back in the hole, just kind of chilling in the overlit cell, glad to be away from all the _you got your ass handed to you by some punk kid, you’re getting old and fat, he pissed all over you, ha ha, you’ll crush people, all right, just sit on ’em_ bullshit, when a rap fell on the door, interrupting a nice image of breaking every single one of Nightwing’s pretty teeth. Let _him_ struggle with eating anything other than cheap, shitty, prison-issue protein shakes for a while. (Goddamn fuckface.) 

I didn’t bother to sit up. I glanced at the door to identify who was bothering me through the slot. 

Koontz. Cunts, more like. A guard as twisted as the rest of the cons in Belle Reve. Probably accepted a deal to be a giant douchebag to the inmates so as not to be an inmate himself. 

“What do you want, _Cunts?_ ” I growled, pissed about being shaken out of my reverie. 

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before, _Cock,_ ” he replied. “You oughtta do standup, you’re so clever. Get your fat ass up, you’ve got a visitor.” 

Why the hell was everyone calling me fat? There wasn’t a speck of lard on me. Next shithead to pull the tubby card was going to wind up a blob of _dislocated_ body fat smeared all over the goddamn wall. 

“Visitor, huh? Folks in solitary don’t get visitors, last I checked,” I stated. 

“You’re so smart. You earning your degree while you’re here? Need me to come in this cell and make you gag on my dick until you wise the fuck up and do what I tell you?” 

“Fuck you,” I snapped, not in the mood for his shit. Like I said, I was happily visualizing punching Nightwing’s perfect teeth out the back of his neck. And I didn’t like being interrupted — period. 

The door clanked open. 

“Move.” 

I followed Cunts out of the cell, noticing that we took a weird, circuitous, underground route to get to wherever the hell we were meeting this mystery jackass. I had a feeling as to who it was, and I really didn’t feel like listening to some entitled yuppie fuckhead spout off at me over letting some punk piss all over me like I was a misbehaved kid on the playground in need of a little talkin’-to. 

Well, if my suspicions were right, I figured I’d just kill the asshole and be done with it. Shackled or not, I could handle myself — easy-peasy, sure as the pope shits in his hat. 

We entered a small room, way below ground, lit from the ceiling by two piss yellow lights. Sure enough, there was Luthor, my former employer sitting at the room’s solitary table. That secretary chick of his with the tidy hairdo and unending supply of mumsy skirts stood behind him, blank-faced as ever. What was her name, Mercy? I wondered if they were fucking, but I couldn’t imagine _anyone_ sticking it in that bitch’s assuredly dried-up twat. Christ, your dick would need Blistex. On the plus side, though, she wasn’t one for a lot of blather. Luthor was wearing one of those stupid-looking Dapper Dan suits of his and the gayest tie I’d ever seen. I wondered if _he_ liked to suck the root and that was why he was so obsessed with his old buddy Superman. I chewed happily on that satisfying thought as I approached the table with Cunts behind me. 

“Crock,” Luthor said, friendly as a half-starved lion. 

“Luthor,” I said shortly, helping myself to the seat across from him. “What’s an entitled yuppie fuckhead like yourself doing in a cheese-infested shithole like this? Nice tie.” 

“How would you feel about a chance at redeeming yourself, Sportsmaster?” said Luthor, cutting to the chase. 

Total bum fucking spoil sport. 

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Well, normally, Lawrence, I’d be disappointed that you allowed yourself to be so humiliatingly destroyed by none other than the Boy Wonder, the original Justice League baby hero… but I _did_ see footage of the fight. You held back — that much was clear.” 

I grunted. “Your point?” 

“Well, as you uncomfortably came to know, young as Nightwing might be, he’s fairly seasoned — he’s been at this gig since he was nine years old. That’s more than half his life, Lawrence, a percentage almost comparable to the amount of time _you’ve_ spent in your line of work. And that aside, the boy is hardly a fool — considering he’s been doing this since his childhood years, he has excellent instincts atop his significant mental acumen. He recognized the opening and took it… unfortunately for both of us.” 

“Mental acumen, big whoop,” I snorted. “Show me some pissant who’s all brains and I’ll show you a pissant waiting for a beating.” 

Luthor smiled unpleasantly. “Yes… well. His mental acumen is a problem for me, Lawrence.” He leaned toward me. “In Nightwing’s… well, let’s call them _off-hours_ , he is an as yet unmatched netsec guru, so accomplished that he has been _begged_ to talk at Defcon every year for nearly five years running, even before hitting the age of eighteen, and has also been invited to speak at _so_ many White and Gray Hat conventions all across the world _so_ many times that he has been forced to pick and choose which he makes appearances at — simply because he is one person, and one person cannot possibly accommodate each and every hacker’s convention the world over without replicating one’s DNA or transforming a hobby into a full-time job. Which brings me to the next tidbits of information you may find interesting about our young friend — Nightwing is also the same young man tasked with keeping the Blüdhaven Police Department, Drake Industries, and Wayne Enterprises’ systems unshakably protected… and the same morally upright golden boy that is commissioned for work by the FBI so frequently that he is practically a full-time employee of theirs.” He inclined his head. “Does any of this, perchance, bear a resemblance to someone of personal interest to you?” 

Have to level. The douche had my full attention now. 

It sounded an awful lot like Luthor was talking about that idiot piece of shit Richard Grayson that stuck it in my youngest daughter, Artemis — the same idiot piece of shit that had the cajones to mouth off to me in that coffee place. 

Oh, I’d looked into that little punk, once I heard the news about Artemis entering land whale territory. It wasn’t like Dickface was all that private a profile. He was practically an open book, just begging me to read it, as though needing attention and praise from every turn. I’d looked into his Twitter page, his Instagram, his lame public figure Facebook account. Apart from being a pathetic computer nerd and acrobat, he was a total nancy libtard do-gooder — always spouting off about the poor and destitute and why women were equal and why the gays should be allowed to marry and shit. Honestly, I couldn’t have given a damn about any of that, either way — just don’t try getting _me_ to suck the root or tell me to pretend I haven’t gotten a workout from a chick outside the bedroom. But this moron’s heart just _bled_ all over my computer screen. Guess losing his mommy and coming into a fuckload of money at a young age suddenly entitled the little fucker to an _opinion._

Well, I knew exactly what I’d do with his _opinions_ the second I gauged just how important he was to Artemis, and likewise how important she was to him, and whether I could effectively use them against one another. I’d take his _opinions_ and throw them right back in his face as I set those little lovebirds against each other with all the dirt I’d dug up on that fuckhead. And lucky for me, those two were _clearly_ besotted with each other — oh, it was almost _too_ easy. Dickface wasn’t as pristine as the media thought, no sirree bub. And once Artemis realized her precious cinnamon roll was just another lying sack of shit, that heartbreak would _finish_ her, especially after losing that dickless ginger fucktard from po’dunk Missouri. And guess what? Her daddy would be there to pick her up, dust her off, dump the bastard kid she’d doubtless no longer want in some orphanage, the fuckhead boyfriend in a graveyard somewhere… 

And then Artemis Lian Crock, that unbreakable, spirited filly I’d thrown twenty-three years ago, would finally, _finally_ be mine to do with as I pleased _._ Baby Girl would make me proud. 

Except then Nightwing came along, horked my teeth, and threw me in the fucking pen. Bye-bye, plans, so long, the end. (Goddamn fuckface Nightwing.) 

That Dickface Grayson and _the_ goddamn fuckface Nightwing might have been one and the same… 

It explained a hell of a lot. And pissed me off a hell of a lot more, too. I closed a fist, and my knuckles popped satisfyingly. 

“You’re not talking about that little shit snack Dick Grayson, are ya?” I asked. “The Wayne beneficiary idiot that knocked up my daughter?” 

“The same,” said Luthor. 

I lifted a brow. “Dick Grayson is Nightwing. Nightwing is my grandkid’s baby daddy.” 

“He is.” 

“Now, just how the fuck do you know that, Mr. Luthor?” 

“Well, you see, Mr. Crock, I have an entire database of vigilantes affiliated with the Justice League and Young Justice that I’ve been working on compiling for years. This database contains in-depth profiles of members of both syndicates — including their civilian identities. Their _definitive_ civilian identities.” 

“Fuck off,” I said. “Not possible.” 

“Oh, come now, it’s not that unbelievable, is it? I am a man of nearly unlimited means — and it only takes a little blood, shed commonly enough during their manifold scuffles, as well as perhaps a little espionage, a little subtlety, and maybe some minor sleuthing to make the appropriate forensic connections that give me such an intimate glimpse into the private lives of our venerated Leaguers.” 

“So you’re telling me that piece of shit Dickface Grayson — that same yuppie moron who knocked up my daughter — is fucking _Nightwing?”_

“I am.” 

I all but went to bits at the idea that my kill list had just gotten one man shorter, and one _million_ points more satisfying. Two birds with one stone. “You’re full of shit. No way.” 

“I shit you not,” Lex said, the curse coming off his tongue as naturally and with as much class as the word “milk” might have. 

“You a hundred percent on that? I’d hate for you to be wrong,” I said. 

“I’m most certainly not wrong. Richard Grayson’s DNA matched samples of Nightwing’s that I swiped over time.” 

“How’d you get Dickface’s DNA?” 

“Society event,” said Luthor, a bit smug as he smiled. “Champagne glass.” 

I paused, and studied Luthor a moment. 

“Damn,” I said. “You’re Rembrandt.” 

“I have merely learned over the years how to protect my interests,” Luthor said. “Winding up in hot water over my recent business doings will not only fail to go over well with my affiliates, but threaten to undo everything that I have worked so hard to put into place.” He leaned toward me. “Do you know, Crock, what the peskiest thing about power is?” 

“It corrupts absolutely?” I said, smirking at probably the crookedest asshole on the planet as he sat right across from me. 

“It’s fragile,” he said. “It’s transitory. _It doesn’t last.”_

“Unless you live forever and are all-powerful,” I said, shrugging. 

“That’s precisely what I seek to do,” Luthor said, “and to become.” 

I lifted a brow. “You want to live forever and become a god or some shit?” 

There was a pause. 

“Let’s not worry about that for right now,” said Luthor. “I erred in judgment, and all of the information that might topple the entire tower I’ve fought for _years_ to construct is seconds from falling into the wrong hands. It’s on a computer, in the hands of Nightwing, Richard Grayson, the same esteemed netsec guru of whom we have just spoken, who landed you here, and who is combing my machines as we speak, waiting to _find_ all of that information and reveal it to the world. _Ending_ everything I have worked _so_ hard for.” 

I grunted. “So what are you asking me, here, Luthor?” 

He leaned toward me, the piss yellow overhead light reflecting off his shiny, bald scalp. 

“Silence him,” said Luthor, “ _for good this time._ Do that for me, Lawrence. Shut him up. Forever.” 

I sat in a moment of silence, taking in that little request. 

Well, that motherfucker didn’t need to ask me twice — but Luthor didn’t need to know that, so I played cool. 

“What’s in it for me, Mr. Secretary General?” I asked. 

“Honestly, Crock? You know damn well I’ll make it worth your while. But tell me the truth. Just watching that sanctimonious little prick draw his last breath would be worth more than anything I could ever offer, wouldn’t it? I _know_ you want revenge.” 

I didn’t let my growing excitement show, but I damn near went hard just at the _thought_ of it. “Maybe.” 

Luthor steepled his fingers, a hairless Mr. Burns. “He is not just a problem for me, you know. He’s a problem for _you,_ last I checked. That the boy who embarrassed you and who has stolen your daughter from you has been _rewarded_ for his crimes against you, praised and petted by his associates and exalted as a true champion of justice as he lives his picturesque, idyllic life free of the reach of real fairness and consequences for his deplorable actions while you drink your food through a straw and wile away your life in a cell… truly, it must rankle.” He leaned toward me. “ _Don’t_ let him remain the force that’s engaged your daughter in active rebellion against you, that’s disrespected you so brazenly, that’s made such a public joke of your once distinguished reputation. _Don’t_ let him remain the punk kid that bested the indomitable Sportsmaster. Don’t let him _continue_ to humiliate you by just continuing to breathe. Pay him back for what he did. Make him pay in _blood_. In _pain._ In _suffering_.” He sat back, his fingers remaining steepled. Honestly, all that shit needed was a white cat on his lap and a twirly mustache. “Make him pay in _death.”_

“You rehearsed all that before you came in, didn’t ya?” I said. “Gave me goosebumps, Mr. Secretary General.” 

Luthor smiled. “Perfect. That _was_ the desired effect. Is that to say you’re on board?” 

I leaned toward him. 

“Oh, I’m on board, Luthor,” I growled. “That little motherfucker will die _tonight_ if you get me out of here in time.” 

“Consider it done,” said Luthor. “Although… I have something of a plan in mind. Koontz, Mercy, let’s get moving, shall we?” 

And… 

Fast forward to the night of July thirteenth, four days later. Probably the best night of my fucking life. 

There I was, hidden in the crowds at the Blüdhaven Metrodome, watching Haly’s Circus cheap as free. The big reason I was there watching wasn’t actually because I _needed_ to be there, even though according to Luthor’s plan I was _supposed_ to sabotage the trapeze riggings to send Dickface plummeting _splat_ to the ground below. A sad little echo of what happened to his precious wubbie family, followed inevitably by a big, dumb stink about how Haly never quit the “All performed without a net!” publicity stunt bullshit. No suspicions, no lifted eyebrows, no questions about foul play — it would just be a tragic accident that would land Haly in the hot seat and spark a social media discussion in the vein of a shark feeding frenzy. And silence the most dangerous voice to both Luthor and myself. 

Best yet? All the smoke and fire from the outrage over the lack of safety precautions would distract the greater public from the reality of why that fucker turned into an inkblot test on the pavement — the foul play, the motives, the fact that it was no accident. 

I could see the merit in it. It would be easy as shit — doll up with some of Luthor’s disguise software, pretend to be doing a safety check on the rigging, fuck it up utterly, and vanish into the night, never to be found, since I was a person who didn’t _exist,_ while Dickface and his buddies splattered all over the crowd. My name wouldn’t even appear in the suspect pool, since Ma’alefa’ak was chilling in my cell in the hole back in Belle Reve, looking pretty much exactly like me down to the freckle on the back of my arm. Martians and that creepy shapeshifting. I’d obviously have to go back to the pen for a while after the job on Dickface was done (no way was the Martian taking my place indefinitely, and no way am I pissing off one of those creepy fuckers), but Luthor had promised that not only would I come into a fuckload of money, he’d pull every string to get me released on some technicality or another upon mission accomplished. 

It was all fine by me, but even though I was kind of racking up a bit of a debt to the old knob by now, I still had my _own_ plans on how to go about dealing with Dickface, and none of them matched up with Luthor’s boring ideas. I didn’t want to sit back and watch the little fuckhead whistle through the air to get turned inside out by the ground — I wanted turn him inside out. I wanted to snap his spine, and then make him _scream._ Cry. Beg. I wanted him gagging on his perfect teeth while I rearranged that pretty little face for him. I wanted to watch those mighty brains of his go flying out of his skull. He wouldn’t be _recognizable_ when I was through. 

That aside, I had other shit to do on my little vacay from Belle Reve. Couldn’t forget Artemis and Dickstroke, now, could I? 

The first stop on getting out of jail (been nice doing business with ya, Cunts) was obviously to go get laid. Did that, got ridden by some skinny hooker with pink hair and uneven tits who couldn’t have been older than Artemis for about ten minutes before I decided I didn’t like her fuck style and had her suck my cock instead. She made a comment about my missing teeth and I threw her ass out of the motel room. She was lucky I’d come — I’d have finished the job the meth was doing on her own teeth and not bothered to pay her a buck otherwise. I chucked her shit at her as she stumbled naked on her stupid high heels over the concrete. 

“Jesus, asshole, I was just asking a question,” she muttered, picking up her crap and the wad of bills and stuttering off into the darkness of the parking lot. 

Twat. I spent the rest of the night getting drunk. 

The following day, not as hungover as I thought I’d be, I set to checking off a couple of boxes on my to-do list. 

People talk. They talk in all walks of life. And I had it on good authority, heard through the grapevine at Belle Reve, that old Harley Quinn wanted a baby — and the Joker wasn’t about to give her one. I doubted it was because he didn’t want some mind for molding, but rather that he knew damn well that the second a bitch had your kid, the kid had your bitch. So… apparently, poor little Harley was at the point of kneeling and begging and sobbing, and he had up and gotten himself caught to make a point. The point being “No means no, I’ll sit calmly in Arkham and give you some time and space to think about what you’ve done.” Then, when Harley finally decided to quit the baby shit, Joker would happily bust back out again. He’d done it before, it was easy as jacking off at that point. 

Well. 

Let’s just say I knew of _one_ baby that might even spark the clown’s interests. Come on, the opportunity to nab a Bat family baby — and one of good stock, if I do say so, myself — and raise it to use _against_ the great Bat of Gotham had to pique his appetite on _some_ level. 

And if those two were in, that would save me a lot of time and trouble on my few days out of the clink. I also knew that _this_ would hit Artemis harder than her daddy crushing her skull would, anyway. She’d expect that much from me. 

She might not expect me to nudge a psycho couple who wanted to steal that baby right out of her fat-ass gut toward her, though. Even if they didn’t end up killing her, losing her baby would kill her worse. _Way_ worse. I knew my girl. She might have played hard on the outside, but she was soft as a marshmallow inside. 

It was tempting to deliberately keep her alive, tear that baby out of her spare tire myself, and send it off to be raised by the clowns (fitting for a circus bloodline), then kill her sugar daddy and just let her live with the grief. All of that would kill her as surely as my flail to her pretty head would. Kill her better, actually. This was _punishment,_ after all. 

So… First, round up that psycho Harleen Quinzel. I found her back at her civvy crap, counseling weirdos who probably had fewer mental problems than she did. 

Her eyes lit up like fucking Christmas trees when I detailed my plans to her. She was so far on board she was ass deep in my gas tank. 

Second, bust the _real_ clown out of the madhouse. The logistics behind this part of the plan weren’t hard to carry out, since Luthor had given me a pretty fatass wad of money to get my shit done. I paid off a bunch of guards and we waltzed on in like we owned the place. 

The Joker was skeptical upon our arrival, leering suspiciously at me over the umpteen chains that held him in place, clearly wondering what the hell I was actually smoking before busting into Arkham to free him with no apparent benefit to myself. When I explained my laundry list of problems, though — one being the Boy Blunder himself — and the fact that my grandkid was a Bat fam baby up for adoption grabs, he bit. 

Literally. 

He leaned toward his psychotic paramour, and crooned, “Well, then. Don’t I wanna rev up my _Harleyyyyy…?_ Three’s a crowd, but a tripod can’t stand on two legs! Make this little two wheeler a _trike!”_

She leaned in to plant one on him and giggled wildly as he bit her lip so hard he drew blood. I’d say it was hot, but it was fucking _weird_ , even for me. Then she drew back, pulled her tongue across her bloody lip, and started bouncing around, clapping her hands together like a four-year-old girl at a birthday party. 

“Oh, Puddin’, we’re gonna have a _baby…”_ she gushed, jumping up and down, her tits maybe one second from plowing into her chin and leaving her with about as many teeth as I had left. (Goddamn fuckface Nightwing.) “We’re going to be a _real_ family now, aren’t we!” 

“We’re having a baby… my baby and me…” the Joker sang gleefully, rocking in his restraints. “You’ll read it in the Gazette… That we’re adding a _limb_ to our family tree… And the best of it is… It’s a _Bat_ baby…” 

“Oh, Mistah Jay, ya really mean it!” Harley wept, wrapping her arms around the Joker and bobbing around like a lake buoy in a hurricane. Her high-pitched, little girl squealing hurt my head. 

“You want this kid before it’s born on its own and there’s not much you can do about it minus straight-up cradle snatching, let’s cut the shit and get moving,” I snapped, doing my mounting headache a favor by (sort of) shutting them up. I reminded myself that including these fucknuts was _good_ for my plan. 

Turns out, I was right — those fucknuts _were_ good for my plan. The Joker had a conversational style that was about as clear as dishwater, but what ideas he was able to get across through the random quotes and lyrics and repeated phrases and poems and honestly, who the fuck knew what else indicated that he was _more_ than capable of delivering a death so miserable to Dickface that even the wop who directed _Suspiria_ wouldn’t have been able to dream up anything close. 

I smiled at the thought, not allowing my mouth to part. Fucking asshole Dickface. I ran my tongue over my gums, my knuckles vibrating at the thought of _his_ teeth shattering under them. And they _would._ I’d have _loved_ to ram the prison’s soft foods diet down his throat before he croaked, but I was so stoked at the prospect of getting out of the can that I didn’t think to bring any of that shit with me. With the money I’d get from Luthor, I’d have to get some new teeth at some point. I was getting pretty damn sick of drinking my food and feeling the sting of air as it brushed my gums. 

But it’d be his turn soon. 

The show started, some technicolor who knows what, lots of props and lights and loud music and flashy costumes. I paid minor attention to the opening gigs, not caring, not impressed. An elephant that smelled like a giant-ass fart was featured at some point. I might have drifted off and caught a power nap if not for the excitement over popping Dickface’s eyeballs out of his skull later. That would have kept a dead guy up and smiling on his feet. 

When it was time for the asshole’s performance, I focused then, tuning into the show. The old shit who ran the joint prattled on for what would have constituted a period of time in history, refusing to shut up about precious Dickface’s dearly departed family and how they shaped what Haly’s (shitty) Circus was today and how proud they’d be of their amazing young man and blah de fucking blah. With that drabble finally over, it was time for “the keystone of this memorial, featuring _the_ Flying Grayson, out of retirement to honor his family!” 

I about spewed all over my shoes. 

But I’ve got to say, if there was any doubt in my mind that little Dickface Grayson was goddamn fuckface Nightwing — that doubt totally _vanished_ when I watched the trapeze act. 

The kid had talent, and far be it from me to pretend he didn’t. I saw the perfect and absolute control over he had over his body as he sailed like a missile across the stadium, streamlining, twisting, and spiraling his form. The same raw power, maneuverability, and pure _grace_ that he exhibited on the ground were multiplied by ten in the air, Nightwing’s signature. Gravity didn’t apply to him. Uncoordination was unheard of. Every single move he made — be it a mid-air twirl off the trapeze, or a goddamn tornado kick that dislocated some poor bastard’s jaw — looked like a fucking _dance._ He soared like an archangel, easily outperforming his fellow acrobats, the undisputed star of the show even when in supporting roles. I had to wonder if he was actually human, although Luthor’s profile stated he definitely was. 

I caught sight of Artemis in the crowd — orchestra seating, where she watched, looking oh, _so_ proud, her eyes gleaming sappily in the flashing lights. Even from where I stood on the balcony overlooking the pit, I could _see_ how pregnant she was. I smirked. I was sure she had all the little baby knickknacks set up and ready, had the name picked out, had done her goofy Lamaze classes, and was just waiting for her little bundle of joy to show up. Little did she and her jackass beau know… 

I smiled to myself. All in due time. 

I couldn’t help but join in the applause when Dickface turned out a move that appeared physically impossible, some full-blown tuck-and-roll thing after getting shot off his partner’s trapeze that ended with him catching the trap thrown to him, spinning up over it once, and then arching up to the mount to complete the show. The applause was deafening, but hey, I guess he’d earned it. I clapped, too. 

And with that particular show over… 

Oh, _showtime._ The _real_ show. 

I messaged the Joker for a status update as I subtly made my quiet way out of the stadium, my face effectively masked with Luthor’s suped up recognition software, and headed over to Dickface’s former apartment that he apparently kept now as something of an office. I’d done my homework, following the bastard around between tasks as he went about his daily business, and while Artemis lounged on the couch like a bloated honey ham, he was almost always at that apartment. Combing Luthor’s machines, seconds from finding the info that would shipwreck the little boat Lex was trying to sail. Dickie obviously had an eye out — for tails and the like — but not enough of one, I noted, as he performed his checks, and, apparently satisfied, entered his apartment. In case of security, I kept my little spy job on the outside of the building. Through the window, I managed to get a tolerable photo of the machines he had parked in the garret room over the main floor when Dickface ducked to the lower level to do who knew what. Sending the pictures to Luthor via a secured line, he verified that these were the computers that needed to be repossessed. Well, no problem. 

I received a selfie from the Joker via the burner cell, and I smiled. Behind his leering face was the figure of the apartment’s landlord, tied up and gagged. The ruse was set. 

Hold your applause, folks. 

I rushed to the building, and met the Joker there. My heart zoomed happily in my chest — I was close. _So_ close. The Joker and I strong-armed the landlord into calling Dickie and getting him to come to the apartment. The Joker held a sawed-off shotgun to his head while I held his cell to his opposite ear, and he obliged without any unnecessary screaming. Oh, muy bueno, monsieur landlord. 

“Ya got a specific way of knocking?” I asked, clubbing his head hard enough to jog his obedience, but not so hard he lost consciousness and wound up totally useless. 

“…Shave and a haircut,” sobbed the landlord. 

“Awwww, no two bits?” said the Joker. 

The landlord miserably shook his head. 

“You’d better not be lying,” I said. 

“I’m not! Why are you doing this!” the landlord hissed through tears that streaked his craggy face. 

I snorted. Real original. Couldn’t say how many times I’d heard that one over the years, although my personal favorite remained _Please, you don’t have to do this!_

“Because I feel like it,” I said, shrugging. 

“He _lies!_ Because what other opportunity is there to make abstract art of human remains _twice_ in one night!” the Joker squealed, and then he pulled the trigger on the silenced shotgun and blew the old landlord’s head into kindling. 

I arched a brow. “Well, I guess at least we didn’t need more info from him.” 

“Oh,” said the Joker, ignoring me and cocking his head as he surveyed the damage, “well, not much to work with… Hmm…” 

He shuffled past the body, his tacky purple suit stained with blood, equal parts Pennywise and Patch Adams as he moved to the wall to drag his hands through the mess across it, tracing shapes in the blood and viscera that melted like a curtain of red snail trails down its white surface. He was like a fucking toddler with finger paints. I really didn’t have the patience for this crap — I was antsy to get the goddamn show on the road. 

“Move, clown. We don’t have time for this preschool art shit,” I snapped. 

“Now, now, Bertha Buzzkill, just one minute more,” said the Joker. “Never interrupt a creative genius when he’s working — didn’t they teach you that in preschool?” 

I crossed my arms and let him finish his doodle as he sang to himself. 

“He had white horses, and ladies by the score, all dressed in satin, and waiting by the door…” he crooned. “Ooohh, what a lucky man, he was!” He put the finishing touches on his scribble. 

I appraised his handiwork, and again, snorted. 

A loose facsimile of a wing, with feathers torn and separated. Beside it, the Joker had scrawled, _What do you give a sick birdie…_ and beneath the picture of the busted wing, was a drawing of a shotgun. Emblazoned beside _that_ jacked up drawing was, _TWEETMENT._

And under that, a drawing of the Nightwing symbol, crossed out. 

“Really?” I said, indicating his bizarre creation. I knew the Joker was fucked in the head, but this crap was pretty next level. 

“Oh, lighten up, you old stiffy, it just seems appropriate to make a couple of dad jokes,” said the Joker gleefully. He made his way toward the door of the office that opened into the alley outside. “Speaking of dads and stiffies, move your molasses, Grandpa! Are we carving this bird together, or what? Ah, Thanksgiving come early this year…” 

I shook my head at his little cave drawing, and followed him out. 

We waited, hidden out of sight across from the apartment building in the shadowy alcove across the alley. The Joker sang to himself the entire while. Low enough that Dickface wouldn’t hear him when he came nancing along, but loud enough to get the fuck all over my nerves. 

“He went to fight wars, for his country and his king, of his honor and his glory, the people would sing… Oooohhhh, what a lucky man, he was!” the Joker droned, and I decided I’d kill him then and there if he didn’t shut the hell up. 

“Oh, Mother Hen down, we’ve got a Mother Hen down,” said the Joker, cutting himself off in his own caterwauling. “Harley’s acquired our little egg donor. Now… to nestle atop, keep the little egg warm until Papa comes along to hatch it…” 

Before I could reply, he was right back on the singing train, now mimicking the sound of a guitar. I clenched my fist, and felt a low-lying, slow-burning irritation beyond the Joker’s obnoxious singing. The land whale was _beyond_ off her game if she was letting some big-breasted cunt in a dime store Halloween costume snatch her up off the street. 

“So!” said the Joker. “What exactly are _you_ planning on doing, Sportsmaster? What’s our play? You get the top, I get the bottom? I hold his legs while you nail his head? I hold him, you kick?” 

I had vague plans, all of them consisting of grounding and pounding and embedding Dickface’s teeth in the back of his skull. I didn’t bother to share these plans — I figured they would play out just fine alongside whatever the Joker had in store. I also figured that if my now unwanted partner didn’t shut up in the next two seconds, I was going to suffocate him with his own tongue and just do the job myself. Even when he quit hounding me, he started _singing_ again. Christ. 

Well, no need for double homicide after all, because right as I was about to crack the Joker’s skull and make my own artwork on the pavement out of his brains, there was Dickie, headed up the steps to his apartment, la di da, ain’t got no cares in the world. I felt a smile play with my lips, the adrenaline shooting with its accustomed thrill through my ready, amped up body. If little Dickie _did_ have a care in the world, well. I’d resolve them for him soon. My fists closed tightly enough my knuckles cracked. The apartment door shut, and with that, the Joker and I moved silently across the alley, up the steps, and finally, to the door. 

Once there, the clown readied that sawed off shotgun of his, and I rapped on the door — _shave-and-a-haircut._ No _two bits._

The muted sound of footfalls, each step making every stab of adrenaline that much hotter and sweeter as it speared through my system. 

Then, the click of the knob, the creak of the hinges. 

And then I looked that piece of shit Richard Grayson, Nightwing, entitled yuppie fuckhead Wayne beneficiary extraordinaire dead in the eye — and _thrilled_ when it all crossed his uppity, too-handsome face. 

Recognition, shock, realization, urgency, and _fear,_ ah, the _fear_ — all in a line, all in less than a blink. The usual expressions that flicker across a person’s face when they realize you’re there to _kill_ them. 

His hands had _just_ begun to lift, one leg the same — 

And then, the muffled roar of the shotgun through the silencer. 

The muzzle velocity of a sawed off shotgun is roughly 1,300 feet per second. Poor little Dickie, even with his _mental acumen_ and quick feet, didn’t have a ghost of a chance at disarming the Joker, who was poised to fire the second that door opened, before the trigger was pulled and the muzzle exploded and the gun kicked back. 

Speaking of making abstract art with human remains — it had to have been half of Dickface’s innards that just got blasted fucking _everywhere._ The force of the shot took him off his feet and twisted him through the air in a diver’s spin before sending him skidding across the floor of the apartment like a toy hurled away in a tantrum. His involuntary roll stopped him on his back, red splashes of blood surrounding him in blots and smears. I looked over the gruesome scene as the Joker joyfully box-kicked his way across the threshold and I followed, stepping inside with forceful, excited purpose. 

“Well, well, well, lookee at the Boy Blunder!” the Joker crowed, prancing over to where Dickface lay, his chest leaping, his neck craning as he goggled stupidly at the gory, spectacular mess that had overtaken his midsection. “Not merely alive after getting turned inside out, but _awake,_ too! _Tough_ old bird, ain’t he!” He looked dolefully back at me. “Oh, Coach, we have our work cut out for us… But I’m guessing you can handle it, you look like you work out.” 

“Oh, I can handle it,” I said, approaching where Dickface lay, gasping, his hands spasmodically clutching at nothing, a pocket of blood bulging at his lips before popping over his chin. He made noises, nothing sensical, just a bunch of grunts and groans, all of them weak and whispery. Of course I went into this wanting him to scream bloody murder, but with a gut wound like that, well, no one’s screaming. But no one’s moving, either — the whole point behind starting this little shindig off with a great, big bang. It’s not like it was a great idea to attract attention with a lot of hollering, anyway. 

And besides, these confused, helpless little whimpers were _plenty_ satisfying in and of themselves. I watched him happily for a moment as his breath stuttered like a backfiring engine and he gagged graphically on the blood in his throat, no doubt there due to his lungs filling up with blood. Oh, the sound was sweet fucking _music._ His whole body shook, big, rippling tremors. Sweat pooled all over him, soaking his shirt and and hair and glittering on his pasty skin under the overhead lights. 

_Hm, already in shock,_ I thought, amused as I squatted down by him, taking in the sight of the pallid skin and bluish lips. 

“Well, morning, sunshine. You thought I was still in the clink, didn’t you?” I snapped my fingers at him when he didn’t respond. “Hello in there…! So you thought I was out of your hair for good, same with Bozo the clown over there, I bet. And, oh, one surprise after another… We know who you really are!” When he just sputtered on more blood, I grasped a handful of his hair and hauled his upper body off the floor. “Hey. You still with us, kid?” 

I expected babbling, more confusion, maybe a few questions, maybe weeping and begging. But oh, no — not from goddamn fuckface Nightwing. The little pissant started _fighting_ me. He clawed madly and aggressively at my hand, going for my fingers, knowing damn well how to loosen my grip. Bat trained, all right. 

Still, he’d just taken a point blank round to the belly from a fucking high-powered shotgun, that had burst out through his back and taken half his insides with it. His efforts at resistance, even if frantic and determined, were comparatively weak, ungraceful for what I was sure was the first time in his life. His hand loosely clasped my wrist, the fingers of his other hand clumsy as they picked at mine, struggling to dislodge my hold. Credit where it’s due, though — that he was still conscious was pretty astonishing in and of itself. I had to admire the kid’s spirit. 

I noticed his lower body just kind of spread flaccid and limp under the bloody, torn-up stretch of his abdomen, and I lit on something. If that something proved true… Oh, well, let’s just say I thought I might have to excuse myself to go rub one out. Testing my theory, I thrust him back down and smashed his head into the floor a few times, just to take a little more of the fight out of him, striking him in this way until his left arm at last flopped bonelessly away from my wrist, and his grip on my hand dislodged, his right arm sliding down to hover uncertainly in a quivering hook before lapsing, bent at the elbow, to his side. He spat up a gout of blood, his eyes dazed under the light overhead. 

I stood, and drove my heel into the flat of his upper arm. He reacted to that — oh, did he _ever_ react, but for all he mewled and his upper body wormed and one hand stretched to grasp his arm, already blackening, his legs didn’t move once, minus a brief, convulsive shiver. 

I’d crippled plenty of folks in my day — _plenty._ I knew the signs. The Joker had sealed that deal, no doubt about it. That round blasted its way through his fucking _spine,_ a freight train bursting through a wall. A huge grin spread across my face — screw the fact that I didn’t have enough teeth to make for a nice smile. This was just too good. _Too_ goddamn good. No more gallivanting around knocking people’s teeth out for little Dickie, no more soaring through the air above a stadium crowded with adoring, vapid fans, either, and no more poking my daughter with his big, entitled pecker. No more poking _any_ girls, for that matter — oh, no. This little Casanova would never get it up _again._

My grin widened to the point that it nearly split my face. I reached down, and again, pulled him up by a fistful of his hair, looking dead into his eyes, those wide, beautiful, _perfect_ blue eyes, his tickets through life now shining terrified and overlarge in his pale, sweaty face. 

“My, my,” I taunted, observing his bleached, dripping skin and terrified eyes, “what blue eyes you have.” I shook him a bit. “Let me guess, the better to seduce my daughter with?” 

I chucked him down, and soccer kicked his thigh, ground my heel into his crotch, stomped his shin, reached down with both hands and with one almighty jerk dislocated his knee. Although he fought and resisted and finally devolved into tears (ah, bliss), his legs stalwartly remained dead weight, unmoving apart from convulsing occasionally, his responses coming belatedly and specific to his upper body, their movements satisfyingly limited by the enormous wound to his stomach. 

I about squeezed a lemon laughing, doubling over next to the quaking, sweating, bleeding form of the great and powerful Nightwing, where he shook and whined on his apartment floor in a smear of his own blood and shit and bits and blobs of displaced guts. Crippled. He was _crippled._ He was fucking crippled! I couldn’t have plotted out this whole thing better if I’d _tried_ , and I just laughed harder when his jeans darkened as he pissed himself. I laughed even harder still when he started to whimper, and then sob pathetically. The Joker, I realized, was not only laughing with me — but had just kept on singing at an increasing volume from the get-go. 

“A bullet had found him, his blood ran as he cried, no money could save him, so he lay down, and —” He paused. “Well. Maybe he didn’t die. Not right away, anyway.” 

The Joker sidled over, even as I just kept laughing hysterically, drunk on the satisfaction of laying this little fucker out like the pile of shit he was. Maybe I’d just let him live to shit in a bag with Artemis wiping his ass for him, all the while knowing he’d never get his cock sucked again as he sat through the hell of dialysis and liver stints and G-tubes and the neverending reams of passive exercises for the rest of his numbered, miserable days. 

The Joker gave me a mocking bow, grinning from under the green fringe of his hair. 

“It was a _thrilling_ performance, Sportsmaster, oh, truly inspiring, but I do believe it’s _my_ turn to take the stage,” he said. “Enter! The clown, the jester, the _Joker…_ stage right!” 

I pulled my shit together and observed as the Joker knelt down beside Dickie, brushing the sweaty hanks of black hair away from his white face. He tsked a few times, cooing to him, his motions freakishly sensual as he mock-soothed his victim. 

“Now, now, now, little bird, don’t you fret, don’t you cry… Do you need a little distraction?” The Joker produced a switchblade from his pocket. “Let’s see, this should do you just fine and dandy…” He ran the flat of the knife over Dickie’s cheek. “Hmm… Better give you something to focus on other than the backed up traffic in your middle there… Oh! I’ve got the just the thing!” 

There was a hiss, a gasp, a weak, guttered, stalled cry as the Joker plunged the blade into Dickie’s side, smack between the ribs. 

“Oh, now, shh-shh… The wound isn’t fatal…” Joker murmured, withdrawing the knife and pulling Dickface onto his lap, running his fingers down his face, much the way a parent soothes a scared or injured child. “We’re not going to _kill_ you, not just yet, sweet bird, I know you don’t want to die, see? Let’s just talk for now, what do you say?” He moved his hand to stroke Dickie’s hair, his voice a slow, soft hum. “See, here’s the thing that _really_ frosts my tuchus like a big, old birthday cake about you and your little flock… We’re always on the losing side, me and mine, I mean, we’re just like the Senators against your Damn Yankees… Even got to the point we were about a second away from making a little Faustian deal with some smoking hot devil’s helper in a garter belt and stripper heels to see just one victory, that’s the spot we found ourselves in… Well, no need, because our desperate prayers were answered and we got your baby’s grandaddy over there instead… Our own musclebound meathead Mephistopheles… And turns out _he’s_ got a bone to pick with you, too, that _he’s_ got some justice of his own to mete out… Well, my favorite kind of justice is the poetic kind, little bird, the kind that’s just _epical_ in its beauty. You like the concept of justice, right? You thought you took out two birds with one stone, penning up a bloodthirsty villain and putting a corrupt politician in the line of fire all in a single night… And I’m sure you felt so _just_ and so _right._ Well, budgie, the tables have turned, is all, and now here’s _our_ justice… two stones, killing one bird. That’s _justice._ That’s _poetry._ And now one stone’s gonna hatch that little egg of yours.” Dickiebird struggled weakly, groaning and sobbing wetly. “No, no, none of that, now, you don’t need to worry about your little hatchling, we’ll take _good_ care of it… You’re giving us the ultimate gift, you know, the gift of life. Ah, it’s just sheer, perfect _poetry!”_

And then suddenly Dickface, once again, proved himself _quite_ the performer. 

All at once he quit the crying act and drove the heel of one hand into the Joker’s forehead, with an aggression and strength that surprised even _me,_ especially from a guy with a gaping hole through his belly and no use of his lower extremities. A fire lit up in my gut and burned in my chest. Had that fucker had me on _again?_ He issued a growling, determined grunt as he fought to turn to his belly, falling into position with a ghastly thump, and then powerfully dragged his arms forward and executed a shockingly swift army crawl toward the door, the thudding of his arms punctuated by little groans of pain and effort. Blood squeezed out of the wound to his ribs. 

“Where the hell you think you’re going, pissant?” I said, at once completely incensed. Fool me once, shame on him. Fool me twice… oh, he was _dead_. I reached down, grabbed him under his arms, and as he struggled and protested, hurled him with all my might to his back at the Joker’s feet. 

Just so we’re clear — with all _my_ might? That’s pretty damn hard. 

His upper body went stiff and stunted, his breath bursting out of him in a ragged, bloody huff. Obviously disoriented, his hands quested confusedly to his abdomen to hold his wound together, the oozing slivers of guts hanging like anemones from his belly and squeezing between his fingers. 

“Fuck… you…” he gasped, his voice faint and gurgly. 

I snorted. “What was that you said about new material? You finally out of jokes, superhero?” 

He looked up at me, straight on, his eyes the smoking blue of hot flames, and with one clearly massive effort, growled in a hoarse wheeze, “Go blow the clown, asshole.” 

“Aw, that’s it, kiddo, do not go gentle into that good night, rage, _rage_ against the dying of the light!” the Joker sang, busting out a couple of tap dance moves. He bent over Dickface, lifting his toes up, bracing his weight on his heels. “Give me stories of your honor and bravery to tell your little chickadee as it grows up —” 

Dickie reached out with one hand, grasped the Joker’s stupid, fuck-ugly tie, and yanked him down, apparently in an effort to drive his forehead into his nose. The villain’s final scare before dying, the jump-startle before the end of the movie as the supposedly dead monster suddenly springs back to life and goes on the attack. Well, as it stood, poor little fuckface Nightwing had expended most of his remaining effort and adrenaline with his palm thrust and attempted battle crawl, and the Joker blocked the head-butt attempt with hilarious, satisfying ease. He just _smacked_ the kid like he was a pimp reprimanding a misbehaved whore, and then stopped any other unwise resistance attempts by chasing that smack with a hard, fisted blow to Dickie’s nose. The blood gushed freely out of his nostrils, a fast-moving, heavy drip of dark red, almost purple, viscous gloop. _Gorgeous._

“Well, that wasn’t very _nice,_ Boy Blunder,” said the Joker sullenly. “It was _rude_ , even. You’ve been spending too much time with that deviant brother of yours. That kid will never amount to anything, you mark my words — and clearly, he’s a _bad, bad_ influence on you. What will your _parents_ say? What will they _think?_ And how can Uncle Jay help…?” He cupped his chin, as though thinking. “I’ve got just the thing! Please remember, budgie — this’ll hurt _me_ much more than it’ll hurt _you.”_

The Joker turned to me and opened up his coat, showing off an array of weapons he’d kept hidden under the bulky, crushed velvet suit. Crowbars, blades, two handguns, crude, handmade explosives. And more besides. 

Oh, it was getting _good_ now. I half-smiled nastily in appreciation. 

“Step right up, Coach, don’t be shy,” said the Joker, indicating the weapons with an elaborate sweep of his hand, looking like a grinning, blood-spattered game show host. “A prize to the first one who knocks off the birdy!” 

I stepped over to him, and knowing damn well the mashed pulp he’d made of the other Robin back when, I swiped a crowbar. Oh, yeah. _Poetic justice._

“Now we’re talking,” said the Joker, his smile turning into an eerie, unsettling leer. “Let’s get this party started…” 

He drew the other crowbar slowly, and then looked down at Dickie. 

“You know, Lamb Chop,” he said, tapping the crowbar against his open palm, “there was one thing your dear, misguided brother was never clear on the last time we crossed paths. See, I was just conducting a bit of a social experiment, something for _science,_ you know, but he just wouldn’t answer me. All I wanted to know was what hurt worse — _forehand —”_ Abruptly, he brought the crowbar down in a hard and sudden forehand blow straight to Dickie’s jaw, “or _backhand.”_

He gestured to me, and, impatient by now and my insides burning white hot with all the hatred and disgust I felt for the little piece of shit at my feet, I obliged the Joker with the hardest backhand strike I could muster. And I went right for Dickie’s handsome little face, that stubbornly remained good-looking even when sweaty and covered in blood and topped with drenched, dripping hair. He wouldn’t be so nice to look at when _I_ was through with him — even Baby Girl would cringe at the twisted freak I’d turn him into before sending him packing to a closed casket memorial. Appropriate for a carney kid — started out in the trapeze act, and finished out in the side show. 

I might have worried that first hit would either send him off to La La Land or straight-up punch his ticket then and there, but he was a Bat kid, perfectly able to take a hell of a beating. And he’d said once he was of tough stock — and he didn’t lie. 

Perfect. 

As it was, his orbital shattered and the flesh split and bubbled up around one eye. Dazed, bewildered, he lifted one hand, feebly worrying at the big, ugly balloon that abruptly overtook half his face. I just laughed gleefully with the clown. Hell, I’d spend my life in Belle Reve for this and not even mind. This was better than my flail smashing some loser’s skull. This was better than sex. This was better than a fucking _blow job._

The Joker and I traded forehand, backhand blows for a while, no longer focusing on Dickie’s pretty face (couldn’t have him losing consciousness, you know — that shit takes all the fun out of retribution), instead landing strikes to his trunk, arms, chest, shoulders, with my partner singing and skipping and dancing all the while. When Dickface moved in a last-ditch attempt to block one hit, taking a strike to his forearm and reaching out to clutch at the Joker’s crowbar, the clown laughed, yanked the crowbar from him, and bent down with his hands on his knees. 

“No, no, budgie, these toys are for the grownups,” said the Joker. “How can I keep you from getting into dangerous, grownup items…” He snapped his fingers. “Ah-ha! I know…” 

He grabbed Dickie’s hand, and with a jerk, yanked his fingers back to break them like a set of pencils, all with the same level of emotion and effort he’d pay to switching on a light. Dickie couldn’t scream, not really, not with half his guts missing, but oh, he made an effort. Ah, more sweet fucking music. It sent shivers across my _spine._

“Yes! Sing, little birdy, sing!” the Joker cawed joyfully. 

I chucked the crowbar, squatted down by Dickie, and grasped his face in my hand. 

“So tell me, kid — what’s that saying, an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth…? Remind me.” I waited. He just slobbered and puled. “No?” I slammed one fist into his mouth. “Well, that’s okay. No problem. I remember now. You owe me some fucking _teeth,_ ya stupid chach.” 

I pulled him up by a blood-soaked fistful of his shirt and issued a rapid, steady, rhythmic series of punches, powerfully issued with heavy thrusts, all aiming for that open target and each one violently jerking his head around on his neck. I grinned wildly as his perfect teeth cracked and popped out of his healthy, well-tended gums. His lips split, top and bottom, both shearing in sprays of blood. His already broken jaw broke _worse_. I withdrew, soaking in the sight of him as I lowered his slackening body. His head lolled deliriously to one side, the teeth oozing lazily from his ripped up mouth like Mahjong pieces in gummy ropes of blood and spit. His breath rattled in his chest, weak and slow and labored. 

Then, at fucking last — he _genuinely_ started to cry. 

His sobs were softer than earlier, now clearly _real,_ all of them dark and heavy with murky despair. Tears streamed from his one undamaged eye, snot dribbling to mingle with the blood that oozed thickly from his nostrils. 

“A-a…” he croaked. 

“Sorry, what was that, Dickface? I can’t hear you…” I said gleefully, leaning down and cupping a hand around my ear. “You gotta speak up, kid — you know it’s rude to mumble.” 

“Artemis…” he wheezed. 

I smiled, a hundred percent satisfied. He was caving, really caving, meaning he _knew_ he’d lost — and he was totally losing his grip, grasping at straws, his brain cleaving to whatever images it had left. 

“She ain’t here, punk,” I said. “No one’s coming. I gave your land whale _and_ your soon-to-be orphan over to Harley Quinn. And Harley’s after your _baby,_ Dickie — you want to know what they’re going to do to your little gold digger once we’ve lit your corpse on fire?” 

Dick surprised me a little when he laughed through his tears. 

“Harley’s in f-f-for a world of hurt —” he stuttered through his convulsive shaking. 

“Oh, now, now, budgie, ye of little faith!” the Joker chimed in. “My lady fair informed me before we even knocked on your door that she’d clubbed your expectant mail order bride over the back of the head and dragged her off to our little hidey hole. Oh, that reminds me… Two gorgeous blondes waiting for me back at home… Ah, and I didn’t even have to suck a cock at Arkham for it! Just had to keep my enemies closer, so to speak! Oh, it’s a _beautiful_ night, friends!” 

“See?” I said, sneering smugly at the flash of comprehension and black, crushing dismay in his one open eye. “Damn, just think, kid. All the people you’ve saved, and you never _could_ save the ones who truly mattered to you. And now they’re going to stick a knife in that big, fat belly of Baby Girl’s, drag it down from navel to cooch, and then… Coo coo cachoo.” I inclined my head. “Remember when I said I’d rather see Artemis dead than stuck with an entitled yuppie fuckstick like you? The grandkid a dumpster baby? I _meant_ it, asshole. And then when she threw me under the fucking bus for that sell-out Dickstroke…” I set my jaw, and shook my head. “She _asked_ for it. In a way, _she_ did all this. I’d kill her myself, but…” I gripped his face, forcing his toothless mouth open, and smiled. “I don’t have to kill her to kill her. Do I.” 

“Crock,” said Dickie, his voice muddy and wet, warped by my grip. 

“What,” I stated. 

“…She’s your daughter.” 

I snorted, and stood. “Blood ain’t thicker than water, kid.” 

Oh, the tears _really_ started coming then. Ha! Oh, even _more_ sweet music. I laughed, contorting my face and mock-whining at him, imitating the pitiful sobbing noises he made. He wormed and shifted, grabbing hold of my ankle with his unbusted hand, his fingers, slick with blood, slipping off the leather of my boot. 

“Crock — Crock, for Christ’s sake — _please —”_

I leaned my head back, took in a deep breath through my nostrils, and exhaled a satisfied sigh. He was _begging._ God _damn,_ it was the single most beautiful sound my ears had ever heard. 

“Please what?” I said, looking down at him. 

Well, clearly, talking was a serious struggle, with all the blood in his mouth and his missing teeth (suck on that, goddamn fuckface), but even if he had only two words he could comfortably get past his split, gushing lips, he was giving flapping his gums a decent shot. “ _Please_ d-don’t — _please_ don’t — _p-please —”_

“I’m sorry, puh-puh-please don’t what?” 

“Crock, for Christ’s fucking sake, she’s your daughter, you can’t —” He wheezed, gagged on blood, and took a breath. “Crock, you _can’t_ let this happen to her —” 

I knelt down to him. “Now just why the hell not?” 

He stared at me, a helpless look coming over his features as _true_ fear and despair pooled in his eyes. 

“She’s your d-d-daughter,” he gurgled desperately, blood misting from his lips. “Crock, it’s your _granddaughter —”_

There was a rumbling buzz over by the kitchen island. Dickie’s phone had flown out of his pocket at some point, probably when he took the shotgun round to the gut. I was astounded the thing didn’t take a pellet and shatter. The Joker skipped over to it, picked it up, and checked the screen. 

“Ah, from… Tim!” he said. “It reads… ‘ETA?’ What should I say… Hmm. Oh, it’s thumbprint locked. Clever little birdy, aren’t you!” He sauntered back over, and then fought with Dickie for a moment when he made a mad grab for the phone. The miniature scuffle ended when the Joker clubbed Dickie right in his sundered mouth, then snatched his busted hand to press his thumb into the home key. Glorious sobs of pain ensued until the Joker wrested the phone back with insane glee to match my own. 

“Won’t be coming tonight…” The Joker grinned as he punched the screen. “Feeling a little busted up… Catch up with you tomorrow… And some exclamation points, and a _smiley_ face! I’m guessing you use a _lot_ of emojis!” He thumbed the phone’s surface. “And you do. Let’s see… Oh! Oh, my. What’s this… Lord, dory! You send this to the _mother_ of your _child?”_ He cackled maniacally and walked over, kneeling down by Dickface and pocketing the iPhone. “Let me ask you a _personal_ question, budgie… You make your little Asian Pam Anderson come with that DNA rifle of yours? I bet so… I bet that’s why you two sext so much…” His grin widened. “Oh, you did, didn’t you, you made her come a _lot,_ you just made it your civil union _duty_ to make Baby Girl scream…!” His grin vanished, and then he pouched his lip out in a pout. “Oh. I’m being insensitive, aren’t I? I mean, now I think on it… No more intimacies for you… No more swinging around like Peter Pan, either… And no more of those automatic Boston qualifiers… No more vigilante justice… Oh. Sweet birdy. It’s all a fate worse than _death,_ isn’t it?” 

“Shut up a second,” I interrupted. 

I frowned. Dickie had gone limper than his own dick on the floor, his legs sinking into the wood, his arms boneless and stretched out to either side. His head was turned, his hair a wet, black halo underneath. He stared dimly with his one unfocused blue eye. His chest hitched and relaxed, his breath gurgling in his throat and shuddering feebly in his lungs. His clothes were soaked with blood and piss and shit, flecks of guts sprinkled all over. I waved a hand under my nose. 

“Oh, dear.” The Joker paused. “I do declare the timer’s popped out on our bird, here.” 

“Yeah. He’s done.” I knelt down, grabbed Dickie’s face, and jerked it toward me to look him straight in the eye. “So. Look at my face. Remember what I said? It’s the last thing you’ll see before you die. Miserably… painfully… and _alone.”_ I let go, and stood. “My word is my bond, Dickface.” 

“Crock,” he rasped through the whistle of his laboring breath. 

I waited. 

“Don’t… do this…” 

I snorted. “Kid, if I heard that one once, I heard it a thousand times. And guess what — _I’ve already done it.”_

“Don’t… do this… to her.” 

I smiled. “She was mine first — mine to do with as I damn well please.” 

“Whatever…” His voice snagged as he choked, and he rasped a breath through his bubbling throat. “Whatever Luthor’s offering, I can give you more, just —” He took another hindered breath. “Please, _please_ don’t do this.” 

I smiled fabulously with my own toothless gums down at him. “It’s already done, you sanctimonious piece of shit.” 

Then I lifted a booted heel, and dropped it full force onto his chest. I relished the feeling of the breaking sternum and dislocating ribs, the sound of his stalling breath as it pealed with a wheezing hiss in his lungs, the working of his jaw as he unsuccessfully rooted for air. 

“Now,” I murmured triumphantly down to him, “ _die alone.”_

The Joker giggled madly, bent down, and tore a lock of hair from Dickface’s scalp. The little punk just sobbed pitifully and breathlessly and the tears streamed double-time down his blanched, bloody cheeks. _God,_ I loved the sound and sight of that. It was all going to keep me warm on cold nights, act as an extra pillow and blanket at Belle Reve. 

“Lovelock for my lovely baby donor…” the Joker crooned. “Oh, black is the color… of her true love’s hair… Hmm.” He bent, and picked up a couple of Dickie’s spat up teeth. 

“Let’s get the machines for the big man and light this place up,” I said. “Much as I’d love to hang out and watch this piece of shit die, I’ve got a schedule to keep.” 

And I did — with one bird down, another caged, it was time to stir up good old Dickstroke. 

“Yes! Fireworks! It’s a night for celebration!” the Joker sang happily. 

Gathering and loading the machines into the getaway truck, left there earlier for exactly this purpose, masquerading as a plumbing truck, took less than two minutes. Dousing the place with lighter fluid and gasoline took even less. Igniting a match and dropping it in the back corner — allowing the creeping fire and building smoke to act as the final, terrifying reaper that would take old Dickface to the afterlife to burn some more — took less than a second. He gagged on blood and cried, the sounds gradually tapering and quieting, all the while. 

“Bye, bye, birdy!” the Joker sang, skipping out of the apartment, pausing at the door to bow with a flourish. “It’s been fun, little budgie, but it’s getting a little too warm in there for me… Make sure you brush your teeth before you turn in! …Oh. My bad.” 

I gave Dickie one last kick to the head (better than a final orgasm shiver after coming explosively), looked over the place one more time for any evidence that might be problematic for me later, and, finding nothing, I used another of Luthor’s gadgets — thermoptic camouflage — to _disappear_ before heading out onto the landing. The Joker never cared if he was seen. I watched him go skipping away down the alley, vanishing into the darkness. 

I shut the door on the growing flames that leapt wildly in the back corner of the apartment, smiled happily as I imagined Dickface sobbing in fear and pain as they overtook him, and headed down the steps. I inhaled the stink of the smoke as it built and seeped out of the building, and made my way along the alley to the getaway truck with a spring in my step, knowing Artemis, my headstrong, rebellious offspring who just couldn’t get _anything_ of what I said through her thick, stubborn skull would _finally_ have her head wrapped around it in less than an hour or so. I grinned, the humid wind tickling my gums. I didn’t even have to lift a finger to check _that_ box off my to-do list. 

Whistling, I hopped up into the driver’s seat, and started up the truck. Cheerfully, I switched from thermoptics to identification tech, and headed off to my next stop — the ancient, waterlogged, abandoned shipping yard to ditch the vehicle and scrub it down, switch to the other stashed vehicle, and make a quick stop to definitively pinpoint Dickstroke’s location. Finally, off I’d go to Metropolis to return the boss man’s computers to their rightful owner and collect my enormous paycheck. Unfortunately, after that, it was back to Belle Reve for a while, but oh, that night, that _perfect_ goddamn night, that night made even _that_ thought completely worth it. I’d suck the root with a toothless smile on my face and bend over with a pre-lubed asshole from here on — all of that sounded like a damn tiny going rate for such a massive fucking prize. 

I looked in the rearview mirror. The smoke rising from Dickface’s apartment was clearly visible now, even from where I was, cruising along the Spine. I smiled, satisfied, assured in my own unstoppable skin. I pounded the steering wheel, belting out some Rolling Stones, periodically appreciating the sight of the oily smoke as it floated heavily into the polluted night sky over the Blüdhaven cityscape. I’m not much of a singer, but my _God,_ I was feeling good. I caterwauled the entire damn song, not missing one beat or word of it. I was going to wind up with a boner I’d need to take care of if I kept on feeling this goddamn great. 

Lawrence “Crusher” Crock, the comeback kid, _squashing_ the little snot-nosed baby bird that thought he could fuck with Sportsmaster — my rep was _definitely_ back on track. There wasn’t a soul on earth or anywhere else in this universe that’d _dare_ fuck with me again — not with the great and powerful Nightwing clipped and crippled and maimed and burned to a crisp for attempting the same. No, sir. No one would even say a goddamn sideways _word_ to me when the truth about how Nightwing crashed and burned after his overlong flight on Cloud Nine came to light. They wouldn’t even dare look at me funny. 

I took one more glance in the rearview mirror, smiling at the roiling smoke. 

Bye, bye, fucking birdy — _bye, bye._

All was right with the world. 


	26. 7-13-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, all...
> 
> Hope all's well! <3
> 
> All my love and thanks to my darling Zoeleo... Her beta work is just phenomenal, much like her writing. <3 <3
> 
> Happy reading, y'all, hope you enjoy! ^_^
> 
> Much love!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_July 13, 2019_

_Artemis_

My eyelids slowly peeled back, dragging sluggishly across the globes of my eyes, my vision blurred and confused through the grit between my lashes. My head lay like an anvil against a cold, solid surface, threatening to fly to pieces at the slightest motion. I drew in a breath, squeezed my eyes shut, and when I tried to press a hand to the throbbing, I found I couldn’t — my hands were bound up over my head. 

I came to a little more effectively then, my eyes scrambling open, my lungs swelling with a gasp. 

_Mary —_

As though on cue, and almost as though there was an unspoken understanding regarding my immediate alarm and she wished to lay my fears to rest, I felt the baby shift in my abdomen, a limb sliding in a trail across my middle. A tingling of relief washed through me, and I exhaled through my nose. I was gagged, the strip of cloth wet with uncontained saliva and uncomfortably stretching the corners of my mouth. It tasted like fusty cardboard (ugh.) I gingerly turned my pounding head to look around and gain stock of my surroundings, even as I strained to remember what had happened to land me wherever it was I’d wound up. 

I was in a bathtub, of all places, the basin empty and dry, surrounded by candles, their flames listing lazily in yellow tongues, all of them standing among scatterings of stemless daisies and long, full roses. Petals were strewn about the side of the tub and across the standing sink. The bathroom was unfamiliar — and appeared _old._ Not only were the fixtures close to prehistoric, but the decor was dated and shabby, the tub scuffed and mottled, the sink the same, the floor pitted and discolored. It wasn’t dirty, just _old._ For an absurd moment as I pulled at my bonds, and discovered my ankles were tied as well, I wondered if this was a wayward attempt at some ludicrous romantic prank Dick had pulled on me _(lol, just kidding! C’mon, we’ll laugh about this someday!)_ But while he was one for the occasional madcap practical joke (not as commonly as Garfield, which was why Dick’s actually pulled themselves off), he would _never_ have clubbed me over the head even if I wasn’t pregnant — 

_Oh, that’s how I got here,_ I realized, freezing within the tub, the dim, vague recollection swirling into shape within my memory, _that’s right…_

That was right. 

I had been walking to my car in the Metrodome parking lot after grousing at Dick about taking a damn century in his trailer. I had hoofed it to the vehicle alone. I couldn’t recall _why_ I took off on foot by myself — it wasn’t a long walk to the car, it was a warm night, the place was still teeming with people, and it wasn’t even late — but Safety 101, why hadn’t I followed its golden rule? 

Jason was waiting with Babs for Tim _(that’s what was taking Dick so long)_ , M’gann and Conner had been getting schmaltzy somewhere out of sight, Zatanna was talking to Jack, who had known her father. Everyone was _occupado._ That’s why I walked alone. 

And maybe… I just got stupid. With my father penned up, I’d slackened an awful lot — _too_ much. 

Why was I walking to the car… I had forgotten something, left something in it, but I couldn’t remember what. Was it even important? 

_My wallet — it fell out of my purse —_

As I reached the car, out in the grassy yard that surrounded the Metrodome, this lot devoid of people, I had barely laid my hand on the door handle when there was something of a muted _thump_ from behind me _,_ a sound that echoed through my skull and sent my brain pinging around its interior. 

Then, my head felt as though two hands gloved in baseball mitts slowly gripped it from either side, squeezing my consciousness from my capitulum, the images in my vision rapidly bleeding away as I fell into something soft and total blackness closed around me like a cloak. 

And then… there I was. In the bathtub. Surrounded by an apparent attempt at romance. With an absolutely monstrous, dizzying headache. And a gag in my mouth. 

“What the fuck…” I mumbled unintelligibly through the gag, bewildered, slowly swinging my throbbing head around. 

Craning my neck, I found my bound hands, secured with zip-ties, were tethered to the pipe that ran out of the wall, white, flaking gray in places. The ties themselves were thick, industrial grade pieces — difficult to snap, if I were to get free of the pipe. 

Still, it’s possible to shim out of zip-ties — and thanks to the prenatal vitamins, no amount of trimming my nails kept them short for long. They’d grown in enough already that if I properly wormed my wrists, getting them good and sweaty (possibly bloody), I could shift the loops of zip-tie down within easier reach of my fingers, and I could shim the teeth with my nails to loosen the hold. 

Elementary, my dear Watson. My dad had shown me how to escape zip-ties back when God was still a boy. (Yes, he had been known to teach me the odd useful skill.) 

I had _no_ idea who the hell had whacked me upside the head and dragged me here, but I didn’t care to stick around and find out. I was unarmed and _very_ pregnant — not the most inspiring combination. 

I was about to start working my wrists when a familiar voice stopped my motions dead. 

“What are ya doin’, comin’ to already!” squealed the Brooklynese soprano crazy-specific to none other than Harley fucking Quinn. “Ya weren’t supposed to wake up for a long time yet, I thought…” 

Harley came into sight, stopping by the tub, and appraised me, tilting her head, the dyed red tip of one pigtail brushing her shoulder. She’d ditched the harlequin bodysuit, I noticed, for a fitted leather crop that exposed her arms and belly and what appeared to be nothing other than freaking bicycle shorts, probably due to the summer heat. The enormous mallet she favored hung from a holster on her back. When she put her hands on her hips and took a step closer to the bathtub, I caught sight of the rippling muscles in her arms, abdomen, and calves — details I couldn’t appreciate when she donned her accustomed costume. The obvious _strength_ in her body, visible in the powerful physique and inferred by the shocking ease with which she hauled that giant hammer of hers around, halted any movement I might have made and lit each of my nerves like they were firecrackers. 

Normally, I wouldn’t be too intimidated (Sportsmaster _is_ my dad), but as it stood, I was bound and gagged in a bathtub like the star of a low budget porno film, and I had jack and shit on me in the way of weaponry. My heart thundered visibly in my chest, each thump reverberating through my body. I had _no_ idea why the hell Harley would want me — but a part of me _knew_ this had to have been orchestrated by my father, some cockamamie revenge plan he put in motion from Belle Reve. There was no reason Harley would want me otherwise — there was no way of knowing if she’d ever connected me to Tigress, and that aside, the Joker had been in the pen for the better part of half a year. I hadn’t crossed paths with either of them in longer than that. 

I wondered abruptly about Dick, if there was some snare laid for him someplace, if he’d been waylaid like me and was in the process of fighting his way out of his own trap. A black, murky dread bubbled like boiling muck somewhere in the recesses of my gut, warning me that something had gone tremendously, irrevocably _wrong,_ something beyond the glaring, terrible mess I was in, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that Dick had gotten himself caught, or that even if he had, he couldn’t get himself out of it. 

Well, if he _was_ caught, I wasn’t going to be any help to him, myself, or anyone else in my present position. I inhaled through my nose, breathed out, and each muscle in turn amped itself, readying for what was to come as my spirit rose to the occasion. I subtly worked my hands in the appropriate motions, building up a sweat. I gazed at my opponent with grim resolve, gritting my teeth through the gag. 

I paused, and a sliver of increasing disquiet pierced my gut and revved my heart when Harley’s eyes slowly slid to my belly, lingering there with a look that was almost _hungry._

As she stared at my abdomen, fixated, unspeaking, I decided to convince her to get the gag out of my mouth by playing nice — and _not_ to bait her or piss her off once the thing was removed. One of the things my dad, Dinah, Ollie, Bruce — _everyone —_ had stressed to me was knowing when you were at a _real_ disadvantage and had to shift your approach to ensure your survival. Fights and scrapes weren’t always about _winning._ It was always better to be smart, and the first part of combat smarts was recognizing your own position, realistically and without some big, dumb ego in the way. 

“Now, hon, I don’t want ya to stress,” Harley said earnestly, leaning toward me over the bowl of the tub. “I _can’t_ have ya stressed — why did ya have to go and wake up so soon?” She gave me a disappointed glare, as though I were a child who’d upended her dinner all over the floor. “I _really_ don’t want to have to drug ya — drugs are bad in your condition, and I don’t want anything happenin’ to my baby… I don’t want to give my baby something that’ll be harmful to her…” 

She stepped to the tub, and I shrank away, bowing my back against the hard, porcelain bowl and bringing my knees up as high as they would bend, when she reached down to lay both hands on the overlarge distension of my belly. She ran her palms over its arch, slowly, almost sensually, her eyes lidded and euphoric. I didn’t breathe, the sweat coming fast and pouring over my face and tickling my pits and back, my teeth clenched hard around the gag. I fought a determined battle with my gorge as Harley clasped my abdomen, ceasing in her stroking, holding her palms over where Mary shifted and squirmed. 

I shook my head, jerking my arms. 

“What’s the matter, Mama?” she asked, looking at me, cocking her head, not taking her hands from my stomach. “Why are ya jerking around like that? Ya don’t need to worry — I didn’t plan to hurt ya… I _never_ planned to hurt ya…” 

I waited for her to elucidate, knowing that as a talker, she would. 

“Ya really shouldn’t have woken up,” she berated me. “If you’d just stayed in La La Land like ya were supposed to… Ya wouldn’t even have known what happened to ya. Now my baby’s gonna be wired for stress…” 

I had no idea what she was talking about, _her_ baby — but my breath came wildly through my nose, my nostrils flaring, inadequate to facilitate my fevered respiration. 

“I never killed anyone when they were sleepin’,” she sighed. “But it seems… kinder, ya know? And… Honey, this is nothin’ personal. Ya gotta understand that. You have my baby, is all, and I want her. But from what your daddy tells me, you’ll never give me my baby willingly. _Over your dead body,_ he said. So… I gotta _take_ her from your dead body.” She paused. “I really didn’t wanna hurt ya. Ya were supposed to be unconscious and _stay_ unconscious. I knocked ya hard enough I thought you’d be out enough time for Daddy Jay to finish up what he’s doing and get back. Now… I gotta figure out what I’m gonna do with ya… I can’t kill ya yet, and I don’t want to knock ya out more than once… I don’t wanna hurt my baby…” 

I tried speaking, then recalled that I was gagged. 

“Sorry, honey,” she said. “I only gagged ya in case of this, in case ya woke up. Still, I guess…” 

She lowered the gag, and I forced myself to stay calm. I was in _no_ position to start slinging verbal attacks — if I did, she might just club me again, and I’d be borderline powerless to stop it. I had to figure out what the hell she specifically had planned, and work on talking her around, spend some time convincing her _not_ to kill me, thereby scoring myself enough time to get myself out of this mess. Or… for help to arrive. 

I sat on that. The team and League looked out for their own, and generally, if one of us turned up missing, they’d turn over every rock from here to Rann searching. However, although I knew I was expected at Marjorie’s, and my friends would undoubtedly come looking for me when I didn’t turn up, I _had_ to bear in mind that Harley could very well have nabbed my phone and sent out a bogus text that would lead my friends to believe I wasn’t coming after all. Cardinal rule in these situations — assume help isn’t coming. 

My thoughts knee-jerked, and I caught myself, again, thinking about Dick, wondering, worrying — 

_He’s fine, he’s fine, you just need to focus on getting yourself out of this —_

Subtly, masking the motions by squirming as though uncomfortable, I started working my wrists again. 

“What are you doing,” I hissed, my voice huskier than normal, low and grating in my reedy throat. I tasted blood — the gag had abraded the corners of my mouth. 

No, it wasn’t an especially inspired thing to say — but I needed to wrest her plan from her. Might as well just be direct. 

“I’m waitin’ for Daddy Jay to come home,” she said. “Then he and I are… Well, we’re gonna take my baby.” 

“What does that mean?” I asked carefully. 

She gazed at me, appearing to be sincerely apologetic. 

“I’m sorry, hon, but… we gotta kill ya,” she said. “Your daddy said you wouldn’t give me my baby as long as you were alive.” She stayed my squirming, pushing me down by the thighs, then embraced my belly and laid her face just over my belly button. I could smell her hair as the scent wafted toward me, layers of florals and vanilla. I might have liked it at any other time, but the smell turned my already heaving stomach. Mary shifted, and Harley inhaled, then released a happy, contented sigh. 

“I know, baby… Ya want to come out, don't chya… You’re so busy in there… Well, don’t ya worry, Mama’s here, I’ll get you out of there real soon…” Harley crooned, smiling against the curve of my abdomen. “We’ll be a family, baby, a _real_ family…” 

I continued to wage a quiet war against my obstinate gorge, rising in response to her unwanted touch and the aftereffects of my head injury, and kept working my wrists. 

“Daddy’s gonna be so mad,” Harley said unhappily. “He’s gonna be so angry with Mama when he gets home.” She looked up at me, not moving her cheek from my belly. “The plan was to lance your carotid while you were unconscious, just let ya bleed out. Ya wouldn’t have felt a thing, honey, not a thing. Mistah Jay didn’t want you awake and fighting… I didn’t want you awake and — and stressing and hurtin’ my baby with all your stressing. Then we’d do a C-section. We studied up on ’em, they aren’t all that complicated, my baby will be fine. But now you’re awake. And where does that leave us?” An undetermined joint, an elbow maybe, passed under Harley’s face. “Shh, baby… It’s okay… Mama’s here…” 

“Harley,” I murmured, gazing hard at her. 

This was _beyond_ anything I’d ever encountered in my own experiences, but I’d heard of similar crimes happening before, childless women, either out of the need to maintain a terrible ruse or out of sheer desperation, murdering pregnant mothers and stealing their babies through crude cesareans. 

“Harley,” I repeated as I looked her straight in the eye. I kept my voice low, firm, but gentle, treading carefully, appealing to her by using her name. “Harley, she’s _my_ baby.” 

“You don’t want her like I do,” she murmured, all at once with such an unthinkable _sadness_ in her voice — so profound that I drew up short, and didn’t interject when she went on. “You have no idea how bad I want her, no idea. I wanted a baby, I wanted one so much, for _so long_ … But Mistah Jay…” Her eyes closed. “Do ya know how it feels, to want something _so bad_ it just hurts you every day, so much ya don’t wanna get outta bed, so much ya can’t _breathe,_ even? Ya can’t possibly understand. Ya _can’t._ Your daddy said ya didn’t even _want_ this baby.” 

_Christ, my dad put her up to this, he_ preyed _on her because he knew Harley was vulnerable and just a sitting duck…_ I realized in appalled, heartbroken horror. 

I slowed the train that my thoughts were on, not allowing them to fully form, not yet. Sympathy and sorrow for Harley, compassion and empathy for her, all of that could come later. I _couldn’t_ let it assault me now — sad as I might have felt for her, and even if I held my father ultimately responsible, it didn’t change the fact that this whackjob meant to cut my throat and rip my baby right out of my belly as I lay dying. 

“Harley,” I said slowly, measuring my words, “unplanned does _not_ mean unwanted. She’s wanted, Harley, believe me.” 

Harley shook her head against my belly. “Ya don’t understand. Ya just don’t. There’s no way you could want her like I do.” She glared hard at me. “She’s my baby. _My_ baby. Mine. Mistah Jay wouldn’t give me _his_ baby, but… He said he’d give me this one. _This_ one… is my baby.” Her eyes closed. “I just… want to _love_ her… and I _will_ … More than you ever could. I _need_ this, ya know?” 

“Someone to love you unconditionally? Unlike…” I trailed off, and stared down at her. 

Her eyes went icy. “Don’t try psychoanalyzin’ _me,_ ya stupid bitch.” 

I held my breath against the vomit that pressed at the back of my throat when she pushed her lips against my belly, kissing over where Mary moved. Then, the muscles in my abdomen laced tight, slowly closing in a hard, compact fist. I held my breath a moment, waiting for the feeling to pass. I’d been having Braxton-Hicks contractions for weeks now, and I’d felt periodic tightening in my middle since waking up bound and gagged in that bathroom, but _this_ compression was the most intense thus far. They’d all been mounting in intensity, I realized — and I was getting a bad, bad feeling about it. Stress and physical trauma (which I’m sure includes getting whacked upside the head with an oversized mallet by some lady who was totally Looney Tunes) can trigger premature contractions, which can spark early labor, and so on and so forth — and no way was I letting that happen in a grody fucking bathtub with Harley Quinn acting as midwife. 

“Listen to me,” I said, struggling with betraying my own agitation. “Harley, listen. Let me have her naturally. I won’t give you any trouble, I swear. I’m almost at my due date — I’m having contractions as we speak and have for _weeks_. It’s safer for the baby if I have her naturally, not by some unpracticed C-section. You’ve never done it before, either of you, have you?” 

“What if we haven’t?” Harley said, straightening, her hands still on my belly. 

“Well, that just… That sounds like a pretty surefire way to hurt your baby, doesn’t it? If you don’t really know what you’re doing?” I asked. 

“Stupider people than us have done it without hurtin’ the babies,” said Harley. 

“But accidents happen,” I said. “And the Joker isn’t always too precise about things, is he? Isn’t he kind of a… a wild card? I mean… You said he wouldn’t give you his baby, what if he changes his mind about this one midway through? Do you _trust_ him with this?” 

“ _I’m_ precise,” she said, “and I’ll be there the whole time. And that’s good enough for this here chick. And I don’t know if I can trust _you_ to give me my baby.” 

“Harley, you’re welcome to try killing me after,” I said. “But if you want to do what’s right by this baby… Please. _Please._ Let me go naturally.” I gazed fervently at her. “Just ask him, at least. See what the Joker thinks.” 

She glared. “He won’t like it.” 

“We can’t know that for sure. Ask him.” 

“Ya don’t know him like I do,” said Harley. “He’ll never go for this — he doesn’t even want ya _conscious._ ” 

I bit back my growing desperation. “You won’t know how he feels about this until you ask. You _know_ it’s safer. I know you don’t want to hurt the baby. _Just ask him._ ” 

She was silent, and then abruptly turned. 

_Please,_ I begged God, the universe, anyone who might have been listening, _please —_

Well, for once _someone_ was listening, because _Harley left the bathroom._

The second the door clicked shut, I went all in on freeing myself. Pouring sweat, exerting every ounce of strength I possessed, I viciously worked my wrists, finally forcing the ties down within reach of my fingers. Having practiced the skill countless times in the past, I easily hooked a nail against the lock bar, and shimmed the ties in swift motions, loosening them, _finally_ swiping my hands free. My fingers were numb, fat, bulbous, having lost full circulation for so long. My wrists were burning red and raw, sure to be exceptionally painful later. My arms tingled, blooming with needles, nearly asleep. But even as my hands shook and my arms prickled, I frantically undid the ties around my ankles, tearing my impractical sandals off. I’d have to _run_ when I got free — and those stupid frou-frou sandals would only trip me up. Perspiration dribbled down my forehead, my breathing heavy and frenetic, echoing in the cavernous old bathroom. 

I had barely gotten the ties off my ankles when I heard Harley’s footfalls approaching the bathroom door. Frenzied, I covered my feet and discarded shoes with the skirt of my dress, and thrust my wrists through the loops of zip-tie, clasping them within my hands to give them the appearance of being wrapped tight. I reassumed the position I was in when she’d left, and held my breath, my whole body shaking, my dress cleaving to my sweaty skin as Harley walked back into the bathroom. 

In her hand was a long, narrow dopp kit. She had a vinyl apron on over her clothes. Her whole body shook — she was _incensed._

_Shit,_ I thought, taking one look at her and readying myself. 

She set the kit down on the counter, and stared at me, her shoulders hunched in a predatory stance, shadowy in the candlelight, looking somehow like a menacing, life-sized doll. 

“Puddin’ said no,” she told me, her voice a low, blazing hot growl as she unzipped the kit. She pulled a flat blade from it, never taking her gaze from me, and my heart kicked into top gear as she advanced on the tub, the knife in her grip. Gloves covered her hands. The candlelight glinted in her huge, blue eyes, eyes that were _far_ from sane. “And now I’ve caught the blue devil from Daddy Jay for even _suggesting_ I let ya live.” Her head lowered, the knife held to one side. “And I want my baby _now.”_

I braced. 

She lunged at the tub, and reached for a fistful of my hair. 

I lifted my legs, and mule kicked her with both heels in the gut over the lip of the tub as she rushed me. 

She grunted in pain and surprise, falling back to strike the bathroom counter, losing her balance as the stem of the mallet against her back bounced her from its corner. She crashed to her hip, sprawling on her side. 

I sprang from the tub, drove the flat of my bare foot into her face, and when this failed to knock her out or even deter her and her hands grabbed for my ankles, I sprinted out of the bathroom. 

“I’m gonna _kill_ you, ya goddamn worthless cunt!” I heard her screech in irrational, berserk fury as I raced through the empty room the bath opened up to, and down the hall I found myself in after I tore through its door. “Ya hear me, ya fuckin’ bitch, _I’m gonna kill you —”_

I tore the gag from where it hung around my neck, and threw it aside, pumping my feet like mad pistons as I pounded down the hall, turning left at the first fork. I had no idea where we were, or what this place was, or what story we were on — my only thoughts were to put some distance between her and me before attempting to score a way outside. I gripped the base of my tightening belly as I ran, praying that Mary would be okay for all of this, hoping I’d lose Harley as I heard her fall into step behind me. 

“You give me my baby _or I’ll bash your skull in until your brains fly all over the floor!”_ she shrieked. I couldn’t have evaded her grasp by more than a foot when I twisted into a room off to my right. It was entirely empty, something I barely took notice of as I burst out of the room into another bathroom, then the hall beyond that. I panted, hearing her coming out into the corridor not long after, and the ridiculous thought that I was thankful I hadn’t shirked keeping in shape snapped through my brain as I took off, hitching my dress up to my waist, grasping the handful of material against the underside of my distended belly. Some detached part of my brain noted that the hem was shorn, that there were dark blots of red blood on the seafoam green material, probably from getting cracked over the head earlier. I had another ludicrous moment of disconnected irritation that I’d enjoyed my newfound hefty paychecks and rich beau by dropping nearly three hundred dollars on Modcloth for that dress and I hadn’t even worn the damn thing once before wrecking it. 

This hall was industrial, with tile flooring and white walls, reminiscent of a hospital or school, and I saw why after a moment — it led to a restaurant-style kitchen, empty and unlit, minus the small peeps of light through the windows at the far end. I nearly plowed into a prep counter, and Harley, her mallet raised in both hands as though it were a baseball bat, laughed hysterically as I turned, my back to the counter, with her facing me. 

“Oh, _tag,_ you’re it, preggers,” she said, grinning with deranged glee, and thrust the hammer toward me. 

I felt the wind as it passed, slamming into the aluminum counter hard enough to leave a dent in its surface. I ducked down, barely avoiding another swipe of the mallet, and skated across the slick tiling to sprint into what appeared to be an old dining room. Harley rounded the counter after me, giving rapid chase, clearly faster and in better shape than I was. 

There was nowhere for me to go, I realized, as she gained her bearings and positioned herself between the exit and me, leaving me to rush to the far wall. There was a balcony beyond, basically a concrete block with wood overlaid and a wrought iron gate surrounding it. The edifice overlooked the water, the rambling cliffside beneath falling into its crashing waves. It struck me suddenly that we were in the Old North, the ski resort that had been condemned years before due to its innumerable foundation issues. It was maybe ten minutes north of Blüdhaven, out in the hills by the oceanside. No one set foot in it after its condemnation — making it a _perfect_ place to bring me to carry out this diabolical intended crime. 

_Dick, goddammit, if you’re going to show up, now would be a good time,_ I thought, clenching my fists, lifting them as I backed up and slowed my steps. I assumed a boxer’s stance. Time had run out. In delicate condition or not, having contractions or not, I’d have to fight Harley — Harley with her three or four inches of height on me, Harley who outweighed me even pregnant with her solid, powerful muscle. Harley who was completely barking mad. 

My back struck the door to the balcony. It was mostly off its hinges, and when I bumped into it, it fell unsteadily open behind me, wobbling a bit around the knob. I took slow, retrograde steps onto the patio beyond, not taking my eyes off Harley. The hot, humid July air, mitigated only slightly by the wind off the water, bathed my skin in moisture, tacking my hair to my shoulders even as the wind struggled to disarrange it. The skirt of my dress flapped wildly around my legs. Later, I’d find splinters all over the soles of my feet. I continued to back up, Harley advancing rapidly on me. 

“You give me my baby, ya goddamn cunt,” she hissed. “Ya just c’mere and gimme my baby.” 

“You don’t want to hurt me, Harley,” I murmured in a low voice, one last effort to appeal to her sensibilities. “You’ll hurt the baby if you hurt me, and I _know_ you don’t want that. You’ve _said_ you don’t want that.” 

“Safest carseat on earth,” she said, twirling her mallet as though it weighed less than a pound. Her knife in her other hand dimly caught the light of the moon overhead. “Your gut.” 

The small of my back hit the wrought iron fence. Harley was only feet from me, almost within reach. She lifted the hammer, the knife flat to her forearm in her other hand. I readied myself, about to dive aside. 

Just as she moved to swipe the mallet in an arch toward me and my muscles shivered to leap into responding action, there was a whistle and a _shoomp._

An arrow lodged itself halfway up the shaft in the wood of the patio, cracking the old planks into a flurry of splinters, and a bloom of smoke burst from it, billowing white like twisting cirrus clouds under the chalky light of the moon. Before I’d even processed the sight, I heard a dear, familiar voice as it echoed overhead — 

“ _Etativel reh!”_

I wheeled my arms a little as my feet left the wood of the patio, even as I caught sight of Jade, in her full Cheshire gear, landing hard in front of me to leap gracefully into the smoke, probably the most beautiful sight I’d ever laid eyes on. I heard Harley shouting wildly in rage and determination through the pale, roiling cloud as I rose into the air by no volition of mine, an absurd-looking parody of a failed aerial sprite. My heart leapt in my throat, and I might have hollered in protest at being yanked so high off the ground when I was as pregnant as I was, but I calmed when M’gann appeared like a guardian angel beside me, wrapping her arms around my form, gentle at my belly. She grasped me close to her as Zatanna passed by, rapidly descending toward the melee below, her face contorted in rage — an _avenging_ angel. 

“Good catch, Miss M. You got her?” I heard Zatanna’s voice, grim and charged, as it murmured into my mind. 

“I’ve got her, Z,” said M’gann, her mental voice layered with distress. 

“Good. Then I’m taking this bitch apart _limb by limb,”_ Zatanna’s mental voice growled inside my head, and I was suddenly thankful that I wasn’t Harley as I clung to M’gann for dear life as we made our way down. 

“Artemis,” M’gann said out loud as we lit on the platform. She threw her arms around me. I hugged her back, my whole body now convulsively shaking, the events of the preceding moments only just beginning to register themselves in my awareness. 

“M-M’gann,” I stuttered as my teeth chattered uncontrollably, “is the-the baby okay, c-can you sense it —” 

She laid her palm on my belly, her hand quivering. Her eyes glowed, and I saw her shoulders slump as she sighed with relief. 

“There’s consciousness there, Artemis, the baby’s fine.” 

I sagged, and hugged M’gann again, pressing my face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the accustomed smell of the earthly perfume she used. 

“Artemis, I am _so_ sorry we took so long,” she whispered, her shoulders shivering. She was crying. “We got a text saying you weren’t coming to the bar, we didn’t even _think…”_

Roy came jogging out of the building, his fingers pressed to his ear, speaking to someone over the comm system. 

“We’ve got Artemis up at Old North,” he said. “Cheshire and Zatanna are engaging Harley. Artemis is going to need a med-evac, and _quick._ She got clubbed pretty bad, it looks like —” He broke off, and stopped as he reached M’gann and me. “Understood.” 

_Cheshire and Zatanna —_

I realized abruptly that Dick was nowhere in sight. Everything had happened so quickly I hadn’t even had time to notice his absence. 

_Where’s Dick… He should be here, shouldn’t he…? Where is he…_

And the dread came back full-force, trickling its black, bubbling poison into my gut, corrosive and burning my insides like acid, as I whipped my head around, seeking him, not catching a single sight of him. I _knew_ him — he’d move a goddamn planet if a loved one was in danger, and this was his _child_ at risk. There’s no way he wouldn’t be there — so _where was he?_

I repressed those thoughts, refusing to give them any acknowledgement — doing so would only make all my fears _real_. The last time I’d given into my dread like that, Wally was gone. Just vanished without a trace into the frigid air of the Arctic Circle. 

On the balcony in the humid July air, I wouldn’t believe it this time — I _wouldn’t._ I’d _will_ it away if I had to. 

_He’s on his way,_ I thought _. That’s where he is. That’s who Roy was talking to._

That _had_ to be it. Had to be. I exhaled, momentarily relieved, and looked at Roy. 

“Was that Dick?” I asked, shivering, impatient to absorb the heat from my boyfriend’s body, feel the soothing, familiar warmth of one of his patented, best-in-the-world hugs. I was _freezing,_ in spite of the humid air, and that aside, I was approximately a nanosecond from completely losing it. Dick’s chest was the only feasible thing for me to do so into. “Where is he?” 

…Silence. 

_Stricken_ silence. 

Roy stared darkly at me, his mouth a thin, grim line, his face whiter than bleach under the moonlight. I looked away from that somber, at once terrible face to M’gann, and my heart instantly plummeted into my stomach, sloshing in its pit of boiling, blackwater dread. Her eyes were filled, the tears streaking over her cheeks. 

“ _Where is he,_ ” I breathed, my voice hoarse. 

_Oh, God, please — please not again — please don’t let this happen again —_

“Artemis…” said M’gann. 

“Roy, _where is he!”_ I snarled, turning away from her, stepping toward my brother-in-law as my heart pounded somewhere in my teeming gut. 

He held my gaze a moment, wordless, helpless, as I stood, shaking and sweating in spite of the chills that rolled up and down my body, in front of him. 

_Please not again —_

Roy released a breath. His shoulders stooped slightly, and he shook his head. 

“…I’m sorry, Artemis,” he whispered. 

And all the world ground to a roaring halt, my ears _screaming_ as I flew at Roy with all my strength behind it. 


	27. 7-13-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT'S POPPIN', Y'ALL!! <3
> 
> So this chapter KICKED... MY... ASS. It kicked it into next MONTH. It kicked it into the next GALAXY. I had to go on an intrepid search for my ass after this darn chapter kicked it so hard. XD
> 
> HOWEVER... Zoeleo SAVED it. I would like to thank her here and now, and LOUDLY and LAVISHLY, for her INCREDIBLE beta work, that helped turn this chapter into what it is now -- easily one of my proudest accomplishments. <3 I couldn't have done it without her. She is a goddess among humans and I might have to build a shrine to her and light candles each day in her honor. <3 THANK YOU SO MUCH, ZOELEO... YOU ARE AMAZING. <3
> 
> Happy reading, darlings! <3 Much love! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_July 13, 2019, Earlier_

_Jason_

“The balance of hope and despair always cancels out to zero.” 

In other words, when things start to go well… Hit the fucking deck. The universe is amping up to take a gigantic, steaming crap on you. 

Look, I don’t mean for that to sound pessimistic or anything. Maybe it _is_ pessimistic, but I guess I look at it more as Faulkner’s definition of pessimism as told by Miss Jenny — you know, where you expect everything to turn out so godawful _shitty_ that you’re always pleasantly surprised by the actual outcome of things. It honestly worked pretty well for me when I _came back._ Expect the worst, and when the _second_ worst thing happens, it’s like fucking Christmas morning. 

But I’d lightened up over the months before what was arguably among some of the worst nights of my two lives, July thirteenth, 2019. I hadn’t even just lightened up — I’d let my guard down so far it was down in the bedrock with the dinosaurs somewhere. Things were just so… _hunky-dory_ that I’d unconsciously raised the bar of my expectations regarding life in general. It had gotten high enough that I’d soon trip on it, if I weren’t careful (and yes. I tripped on it — _hard —_ that night.) Tim played a role in its sneaky ascension. 

Sounds weird that the Replacement played a role in my no longer waiting to find gum on the bottom of my shoes or grubs in my food or a goddamn crowbar whizzing full-speed toward my face every day I woke up to my obnoxious alarm. 

It surprised me even more than it surprises you, I think — the fact that the little fucker I sought out to _remove_ for so brazenly taking _my_ place in _my_ family and on _my_ team would be the one who ultimately extended a hand and helped me up out of the all-consuming abyss that my entire life had become upon my weird-ass return. 

That’s a story for another time. The thing was, I was in the alley behind Marjorie’s bar that thirteenth of July, Anno Domini 2019, with Timothy Jackson Drake, all of his five feet and nine inches pressed to my six feet, his slim form dwarfed by both my massive arms, and I was two seconds from having him plant one on me. Tim’s a bit of a sleeper — you don’t expect such a fucking _dork_ to have a passionate, aggressive side. But it was there — I saw it in battle, I saw it during his avid video game marathons, I saw it when he talked about shit he liked, I saw it when he got his dander up high enough to engage in a debate — and I definitely saw it then. 

I was still kind of floundering from him professing not only his newfound orientation to me, but his _feelings_ as well — and when we went back out into the alley to discuss things a little further, without interruption, I only floundered more when he sidled right up to me, so close we were touching, so close I could feel his heart pounding. I hadn’t been… you know, _intimate_ with anyone since Talia, and it’s not like I recalled _that_ fucked up genderbent _Merchant’s Tale_ with any sort of warm fuzzies. I also had _no_ illusions about my romantic capacity. That was a department I wasn’t especially experienced in — my most romantic memory was reading _Persuasion_ when I was fourteen. 

In retrospect, as my eyes zeroed in on Tim’s lips — thin, smooth, with little dimples at the corners that gave him the illusion of always being sanguine — I realized I’d been flirting with him for _months._ I hadn’t even realized I’d been doing it, but Christ, I had. 

I also realized I’d been rubbing off in the shower, my thoughts tuned into the frequency hosted by Tim Drake, for an equivalent amount of time. I had chocked it up to my mind wandering. 

Yeah. Bullshit. 

My heart started hammering faster as he lifted his chest, those thin, sanguine lips parting, eyes gleaming and china blue, hair pitch black in the darkness of the alley, and I just wrapped both my arms around him and drew him even closer. I tilted my head down, but ruined the moment when, by no volition of my own, I murmured, “Tim, have you kissed a guy before?” 

He chuckled a little breathlessly, and shook his head. “I was hoping you’d break that streak for me, but you kind of have to shut up first.” 

I grunted, although I smiled. “My bad. I suck at this shit.” 

He shrugged. “Well, I’m not much better at it, so I guess we can just suck together.” 

_Yeah. We’ll suck together, all right,_ I thought, and almost burst into hysterical little girl giggles. I hadn’t even locked lips with him yet, so I decided _not_ to say that out loud. 

Then, there was a loud rumble in his jeans. 

“Your phone? Seriously?” I said. 

He sighed. “Sorry, I texted Dick. Not sure where he is, but I feel like he should have been here by now.” 

I snorted. “Well, Artemis isn’t here, either — they’re probably boning in the back of her car.” 

Tim laughed. “A good point. They do that from time to time.” 

Still, he backed away enough to pull his phone from his pocket. I looked askance at him when he withdrew completely, frowning at the screen. 

“What’s up?” I asked. 

“Uh… Well, nothing, I think? But… I don’t know, something about this text seems kind of weird.” 

I took his phone. 

_Won’t be coming tonight. Feeling a little BUSTED up. Catch up with you tomorrow!!!_ A handful of emojis chased the message — a smiley, a squirtgun, a crybaby face, a fist, a hammer, a fire, and a ghost. All in a line. 

I read it a few more times, studying it. 

“That’s beyond weird,” I agreed. “I’d actually say he was taking honks on Grandpa’s old cough medicine after the show or some shit. Was he drinking when you two spent all year singing Kumbaya in his trailer?” 

Tim shook his head. “Not that I saw. He also considers it an etiquette thing to show up to something he orchestrated.” 

“Unless he gets sucked into saving the world or whatever.” 

Tim issued a light chortle. “Right… I mean, the only time I’ve ever seen him flake out because of feeling lousy was that time he got shot in the shoulder,” said Tim. “He was so high on pain meds he said he didn’t feel comfortable even getting up and walking. But we all went over to his apartment and just hung out there…” 

“Text him back and see what’s up.” 

For some reason, a sliver of foreboding had speared my guts — a similar feeling to the one I got when I chased the Joker down all those years before. 

Tim nodded, and thumbed his screen. He pocketed the cell. I stifled my disquiet. 

_It’s fine, Jay,_ I told myself. _Stop jumping at shadows like a fucking moron. You’re worse than Richie Tozier first coming back to Derry._

“Uh, so where were we?” Tim asked, smiling. 

“Remind me,” I said. “There’s time.” 

And then… Conner came out into the alley. 

_Godfuckingdammit —_

I cast him a withering glare that he didn’t seem to notice. 

“Hey,” he said. “Either of you heard from Dick or Arty?” 

“I just did,” said Tim. “Apparently… Dick’s not coming tonight.” 

Conner grunted. “That’s kind of weird. Everything okay?” 

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I said. “Speaking of weird, it was kind of a weird text. Still, assume he’s not coming, and since he’s not coming, Artemis probably isn’t, either.” 

Conner nodded, and headed back inside. 

But as Tim turned to me, I found I couldn’t focus. Everything about the text Dick had sent Tim niggled at my mind, and when I looked down at my alley companion, I knew it bothered him, too. 

“It’s the emojis,” said Tim suddenly. “You saw… I mean, come on, squirtguns and hammers and fists?” 

“Oh, my,” I said, and frowned. “I think the ghost is what’s mostly sticking in my craw.” 

“The whole thing just… It doesn’t _sound_ like him.” He chewed at a thumbnail. “Jay, I _hate_ saying it, but you know there’s no such thing as paranoia in our line of work.” 

“Well, no shit,” I snarked. “How very wet the water is.” 

“ _Still —_ it’s probably nothing,” Tim went on, ignoring me. “Like maybe Dick just used the squirtguns and hammers and fists — oh, my! — to represent the beatdown he had to have gotten from his workout on the wires. And if it turns out to be nothing — which it probably will — we can relax and just _enjoy_ our night.” 

“Well,” I said, “you know how they say the right answer is the most obvious one? The one that seems completely hinky? Maybe Dick just flaked on us because he got pulled into taking a squat on a drug deal and had to put on the Nightwing duds or some shit. We all know how it feels to take a round from a high-powered weapon through Kevlar — might not kill ya, but it’s enough to make you start lurching around like Frankenstein’s monster. And last I checked, there’s no zombie emoji. Which is stupid as hell, by the way.” 

Just then, my phone buzzed in my jeans pocket, mirroring Tim’s. Given the somber atmosphere, neither of us joked about it. I checked the screen. 

The message was from Bruce, and at his words, my heart kick-started into a shivering sprint behind my ribs. 

_Be on alert,_ it read. _I received word this afternoon that the Joker escaped from Arkham._

“Oh, _fuck,”_ I hissed, feeling as though the ground had just gone out from under my feet. Tim looked askance at me. 

_You couldn’t be bothered to let us in on this?_ I sent back, abruptly fuming at Bruce’s customary silence, the same reticence everyone could count on to never end and to always have the shittiest timing. 

_I’ve spent the day confirming the tip. It was sketchy at best and required a lot of back-and-forth between Arkham and Belle Reve. It’s why I didn’t come to see Dick’s performance this evening,_ he replied. 

I calmed somewhat. That was fair enough. 

_Who tipped you off and how did the Joker get out?_ I sent, resolve settling into place alongside the typical fear and anger that always set in where the Joker was concerned. 

Deep breaths, Jaybird, idiot, I told myself. 

Tim looked at his own phone after it buzzed, and turned his alarmed gaze to me. 

“You get the latest from Bruce?” I asked. 

He nodded, the color leaking out of his face, and then my phone buzzed again. 

_The tip came from an inmate at Belle Reve, and not from a sense of intrinsic generosity,_ Bruce sent. _The Joker escaped through the aid of an outside source other than Quinzel. One with means. Guards were paid to break him out quietly and to keep the breakout under wraps._

_Has the Joker been seen since?_ I texted. 

_He’s thought to have been spotted in Blüdhaven this evening, according to Chief Rohrbach,_ he returned. _I’m en route now._

My heart, already stuttering, fucking _fell._

“Tim, the Joker was spotted in Blüdhaven,” I said, my voice echoing hollowly within my own ears. 

“…I still haven’t heard from Dick,” Tim said, staring at me, his eyes like round china plates in his white face. “You don’t think…” 

“Oh, Christ, I hope not,” I growled, madly thumbing the screen of my phone. 

_Bruce, we can’t get ahold of Dick,_ I texted. _Artemis hasn’t turned up since the show, either._

_Don’t panic,_ I received back with immediacy. _Positive ID was never made on the suspicious subject. Keep trying them and I’ll do the same. En route to the Zeta now, ETA in Blüdhaven three minutes._

“Tim, send him a screencap of the text you got,” I said. “The one with the squirtguns and hammers and fists.” _Oh, my._

He immediately thumbed his screen, and a moment later, his phone buzzed. 

“Bruce alerted the League,” he said, then laughed shakily. “You know, we’re all going to feel really stupid when this turns out to be nothing.” 

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But this isn’t something to fuck around with. It’s better to find out it’s nothing and feel stupid later than dismiss it and have some terrible shit go down.” 

A shake started in my hands. Tim nodded wordlessly. 

Then my phone buzzed again, a foghorn blast in that muggy silence, startling the hell out of me. Unconsciously, one hand reached for my hip — for the holster that, in civvies, wasn’t there. If my hand kept moving, it would grasp my utility knife, instead. _That_ went with me everywhere — no matter what. 

Years had passed — and I _still_ wound up on a dangerous hair trigger, from zero to busting heads, whenever the Joker’s name popped up. 

_Meet me in four minutes by Halyard Square,_ I received from Bruce. _I’m sending Tim and Barbara to the house in Gotham to see if Dick and Artemis just went home. Putting the League on alert is a precaution. I repeat, don’t panic. The Joker’s whereabouts as yet are unknown and no incidents have been reported._

Tim was already pocketing his own phone. 

“I’d say to be continued, but this seems way too serious for that,” he said darkly, and then he surprised me when he bounded forward and left a swift, hard, dry-lipped kiss on my mouth. 

“Jason,” he said forcefully. “Please be careful.” 

“You do the same, Replacement,” I said. “You run across the Joker and get yourself killed, I’ll kill your fucking corpse.” 

He squeezed my hands, his grasp lingering a little, and then he turned and raced down the alley, where Babs appeared from around the front of the bar to meet him. 

Some afterparty. Some tryst. Some night. _Fuck._

I ran out of the alley, making my way to Halyard Square. My pits poured sweat unrelated to the equatorial summer heat, my heart rate pumping at a report disproportionate to my physical effort. The square was maybe seven blocks up the way, nearby Dick’s apartment building. I hadn’t made it five blocks before Bruce startled the shit out of me, appearing like a bat out of hell (pardon the expression) and screeching to a roaring halt on his motorcycle. He was in civilian clothes, but before I could ask why he didn’t suit up before coming to Blüdhaven and why he’d foregone the intended meeting at the square, he jerked a thumb at the bike’s rear seat. My stomach lurched when I saw the thin line of his mouth, the pallid quality of his skin. 

“Get on,” he snapped. “Tim just got a series of texts from Dick. _All_ of them featured the clown emoji or photos of clowns — and just now there was a fire reported at Dick’s place.” 

I _felt_ my guts just fall out of my body even as my heart bucked wildly in my chest. I opened my mouth to hurl a brainful of questions at Bruce. My mind _refused_ to connect the dots. 

“Jason, get on, _now,”_ Bruce hissed before a single one left my lips. 

At this point, I was unusually _well_ past words, questions, or disobedience. My earlier foreboding morphed to full-blown, sickening dread, and for once in my lives, I did as I was told. Wrapping my arms around Bruce’s solid waist, we sped through the city blocks, cutting corners and down side streets to Dick’s apartment building. 

“Oh, Christ…” Bruce exhaled in a low, growling voice as we rounded the final bend. I fell and rolled spectacularly, barking my shoulder hard against the pavement as he thundered to a stop. He leapt from the motorcycle before even properly braking and didn’t actually bother to shut the thing off. I clumsily regained my feet and followed him as he raced toward the rear stairs that led to the entrance to Dick’s apartment. My eyes locked on the slowly unfolding horror in front of me, my breath squeezing in my fattening throat. 

The building belched oily spumes of smoke, all of it roiling up into the mottled night sky in fat, gray plumes, dwarfing the outlines of the buildings beyond. I could hear the enraged crackling of the fire, see the flames leaping into the air, aggressively orange and yellow. The smoke and fire unmistakably billowed from Dick’s apartment, spurling riotously outward from his living room floor-to-ceiling window. I heard sirens approaching in the distance. 

_No — like Sarajevo — can’t be —_ Thoughts flitted in and out of my mind, quickly as shooting stars. 

Bruce hit the base of the steps to the apartment and took them three at a time, with me driving hot on his heels. He barreled through the apartment door as though it were dry kindling, heedless of the suffocating flashover that engulfed us in an incinerating bosom of smoke and the raucous flames that danced a furious reel scant feet away. That we didn’t wind up in a backdraft that blew us to Kingdom Come was nothing shy of a divine miracle — and it was unlike Bruce to be so careless, unless he had already calculated the likelihood of a backdraft versus a flashover based on the fact that some panes of the floor-to-ceiling living room window were blown out, slowing the loss of oxygen. The blast sent me stumbling backward onto the landing, overwhelmed momentarily by a crushing flashback of the bomb that took me out the first time. 

There wasn’t time to get hung up on the details or past traumas when Bruce ground to a stop just past the foyer for the barest second until the flashover dissipated somewhat. He sprang forward again, and I righted myself and ran over the threshold. I shielded my mouth against the angry smoke that clotted in my chest, pulling my shirt up over my face. I blinked as tears sprang up and fell in lively trails down my cheeks. A kaleidoscope of horror twisted within the apartment, every sight, scent, and sound spewed from the mouth of hell to shift and turn within the confines of that at once awful place. 

But it wasn’t as bad as it could have been — not yet. The fire, clearly still young, hadn’t reached the kitchen or foyer. However, it leapt energetically up the far wall that adjoined the brick siding of the living room in a ballet of horrific beauty, glutting itself on the wood of the garret bedroom, periodically spitting chunks of it away to crash to the floor below. For a brief moment, I stared, utterly transfixed. The amount of books that blaze would have turned to ash — although I had a feeling the Fahrenheit was past 451 by then. It was daytime bright inside, the flames illuminating the apartment like a condensed sun. The light reached every corner, leaving few shadows — meaning _everything_ was laid bare, all of it in plain sight as though we’d stumbled upon some ghastly museum display in a gruesome showcase. 

There was blood _everywhere,_ I noticed first, and next — 

_Now I lay me down to sleep my bomb proof cellar's good and deep but if I'm killed before I wake remember god it's for your sake amen —_

I noticed Dick. 

He was on his belly, unmoving, facing the door, one arm half-extended. In the light of the fire, I could see the gouged, ragged maw that opened like a shark’s bloody mouth in his back — doubtless the exit wound of a high-powered weapon. His shirt, formerly white, was tie-dyed dark, splotchy red, maroon in some places, pink in others. Bruce was already on his knees beside him, gingerly but hurriedly turning him to his back. Bruce had also shielded his mouth with the collar of his shirt. 

When I caught sight of my brother, lying limp and unresponsive, his normally handsome face now all torn up and mutilated, his middle disappearing in a black, yawning vacuum of gore and displaced innards, blood soaking every inch of his form, I lost my foothold on the world, everything decelerating to a slow-motion film reel around me, all of the colors garish and overbright, the sounds deafening and issued in lazy, booming chords. 

Dick gazed with one eye at the ceiling, his face empty, unseeing, lapsing in on itself in some places, burgeoning out of itself in others. One eye had been swallowed up in a mountain of swollen, bloody flesh. The sight of him was eerie, _repulsive_ in the blinding, rippling yellows and oranges of the fire. That his face was so hideously mangled — to the point that it wasn’t at all _his,_ not even by the most generous stretch of a willing imagination — but still somehow so calm and unconcerned in spite of this fact… it carried on its unperturbed expression a terrible, heavy truth. 

Dick had _understood._

_Where no hope is left, is left no fear._

Maybe he hadn’t _accepted,_ but he had _understood._ Doubtless, the same comprehension overtook my own features in the individual second that the world went blinding yellow after the final _snick_ of the timer. 

Dick’s one open eye was half-lidded, part of the iris visible and gleaming dully in the skipping firelight. I couldn’t see through my own blurring vision, but I had a powerful feeling that the pupil in that sightless eye didn’t dilate and retract, much as I had the same powerful feeling that his chest didn’t lift and fall, that the blood didn’t continue to pump itself from the inroads that marked the map of torment that maimed his body. 

My own heart seemed to grind to a halt inside my chest. 

Bruce, seeming every bit as impervious to the fire as Superman might have been while it raged obliviously across the living room, leaned down, and hauled Dick’s dead-weight body into his arms. 

Without thinking, I said, “Bruce, you can’t — don’t move him —” 

“You want to leave him in here to burn?” Bruce snapped, his words muffled a little by his shirt, which was already sliding away from his face, and issued swiftly. He was already heading toward the door. “Getting him away from the fire’s more important than tip-toeing around his injuries, which are already done — _so move.”_

Bruce was right, I knew, and I followed him out into the muggy air on the landing, skidding into step next to him on the sidewalk at the base of the stairs. The heat from the fire bellowed into the night, roaring like an invisible lion, the cloying grumes of smoke grasping with heady arms in the wind off the river. Bruce just pounded across the adjoining lot, all the while clutching Dick in his arms as though he were a forty-pound child, and when we hit the empty curb lining the parking garage a ways off from the building, Bruce went to his knees, and laid Dick on his back on the pavement. He turned aside, coughed a few times, then bent to pinch Dick’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. He laid his cheek to his parted lips, rose, and felt along his chest, finally positioning his hands to start CPR. 

“Bruce,” I protested hoarsely through my raw throat, gesturing helplessly with one hand and gripping a fistful of my shirt collar in the other. “Bruce, what are you _doing?”_

“Jason, call EMS and be sure an ambulance is coming,” Bruce ordered sharply, huffing as he lunged into a series of vigorous chest compressions. 

All at once, I started to sob. The incoming sirens continued to wail, their cadence growing louder with every passing second, but thousands of miles away for what good they’d do. 

_There’s no coming back from this,_ I realized in an icy moment of disconnected logic, _there’s no way, he’s — he’s —_

“Bruce — goddammit, he’s _dead,_ just leave him _alone_ —” I cried. 

He turned on me with one swift jerk. 

“ _Call the goddamn ambulance!”_ he bellowed, and immediately fell back into his dedicated chest compressions, performed on my brother’s lifeless, unresponding form. 

I stared for a second, assaulted by a sudden image of Bruce as he might have been that night in Sarajevo, doing the same thing to my shattered body as the fire guttered in the rubble around us. Was this what Bruce had looked like when _I_ had died? Had he been this frantic, this desperate, so overcome by an incomprehensible despair? 

I fumbled for my phone and dialed 911. I don’t remember what exactly I said to the dispatcher as I watched Bruce pummel Dick’s already caved and broken chest, close his mouth over his shredded lips to exhale a perfunctory three times, and launch right back into the chest compressions. The lady on the other end assured me that police, the fire department, and paramedics were all en route already, having been dispatched at the same time — all things that meant jack shit nothing to me in that moment. 

I lowered my phone, and turned my face away, unable to continue watching Bruce as he kept up his wasted efforts on Dick, somehow sickened by the sight. 

_Christ, he’s been through enough, Bruce, just leave him be, don’t put him through anymore, let him fucking_ rest _for once —_

Just then, something struck me with the same sense that I’d been punched with cold water in the midst of the roaring heat of the mid-summer night and madly storming flames, and I came back to myself with a profound whoosh. I rushed to Bruce’s side. Fuck the fact it looked totally hopeless — I’d help him in his efforts or ship myself off to hell. 

“Jason — life breaths, series of three after thirty compressions,” Bruce huffed through his rigorous motions. He coughed, loudly and absently. I could hear the far-off, muffled _pops_ of gruesomely shifting ribs, blending into the sounds of the fire and wind, all of it a morbid symphony. 

“I _know,_ you old jackass,” I snapped, cupping Dick’s broken jaw in my hand and listening to Bruce’s count. 

At “thirty” I bent, pinched Dick's nose, and exhaled hard into the gaping aperture between his blood-soaked, shorn lips — one, Gotham City, two, Gotham City, three, Gotham City. Bruce took the compressions back up with fervor once I was through. Blood smeared my own lips, thin and oily. It tasted minerally and pennyish on my tongue. Later, the sight of Dick’s unfocused, staring blue eye, flickering mattely in the mingling light of the nearby streetlamps and fire, would bring itself to a starring role in my neverending nightmares. I finally reached over and closed it, unable to bear the sight of that unseeing gaze as I breathed for my brother. 

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought of Artemis. How the _hell_ we were possibly going to tell her about this. What the _fuck_ we were actually going to say. And then a part of me began to wonder if this horrific shit show was even _real,_ when it didn’t seem at all so. 

_It’s_ not _real,_ I thought dimly, my mouth opened over Dick’s and exhaling hotly into his lazily blooming lungs. _It’s fake. That’s all this is, some long, drawn-out hallucination meant to drive Batman insane, send him off the deep end, draw him out into the open where they can take him out for good and all —_

I choked on a sob as I lifted up. Dick was goddamn real enough underneath me — every bit as real as his blood smeared all over my mouth in a viscous clown’s smile, every bit as real as the rabid fire and distressed wind. 

My lightless, weighted thoughts upended in an unfinished scatter when the sound of voices and commotion forcefully overturned them. I turned, and caught sight of firefighters in their flashing mustard yellow protective suits as they geared up to confront the blaze, and then, oh, pivot of heels and knees — a group of EMTs, jogging hurriedly toward us. 

I scooted back, getting the hell out of their way — although it quickly became clear that Bruce wouldn’t be so easily swatted aside. 

“Sir,” said one tech, a young man with a sweating, earnest face, grasping Bruce’s wrist. “Sir, you need to let him go now. Let him go. _Let go.”_

Bruce all but _threw_ the kid away, dislodging his wrist, then poised his hands atop Dick’s chest, his posture hunched jealously over his unmoving body. 

“I can revive him,” he snarled in a hoarse voice, sending the kid scuttling back like a startled roach. 

“Mr. Wayne,” said another tech, this one an older blonde woman with a much gentler disposition than her co-worker, and who apparently kept an eye on the Gotham rags. “Mr. Wayne, why don’t you let him go now? You’ve done well — maybe let us do what we can from here.” 

I stepped in, seeing an opening, and forcibly nudged Bruce aside when he looked like he was about to give the woman holy hell. He rounded on me, and I thought he was going to try taking my damn head off then and there. He drew up to his full, imposing height, his shoulders broadening under the plain black tee he wore, threatening to split the garment’s seams — hardly some conjurer of cheap tricks. The sight of him in that moment alone would have been enough to make able-bodied, grown men piss all over themselves. 

I wasn’t Gogol’s Akaky everyman, however, and I lifted aggressively all the way to my own considerable height, prepared to throw down if necessary — Dick needed _real_ help, paddles and adrenaline shots and respirators and shit, not weak, manual, dime store CPR. And if Bruce Control Freak wound up killing my brother, his son, because he couldn’t relinquish control for once in his goddamn life — oh, I’d throw down. Blood would _fly_ if it came to that. 

“Bruce — you're the one who said to call a goddamn ambulance, now the paramedics are here, let them do their fucking job,” I bellowed. 

“Holy shit, we have a pulse,” announced the younger male tech, interrupting me and instantly diffusing the charging electricity between us. We both jerked our heads to look down at him, and I finally took note of the other EMTs, now joined by others, all of them carting equipment. 

Bruce turned away from me at this announcement, by now hacking coughs from the pit of his chest barrel. I belatedly took active notice of the hot, serrated burning in my own lungs, the blades that needled my throat. As if on cue, I fell into a gale of my own coughing, a fit that easily outdid the mornings of my heaviest smoking days. We’d been inside the blazing apartment less than two minutes, but smoke inhalation can do plenty of damage and even kill in that allotment of time, and who the fuck knew how bad we had it — adrenaline and panic had masked its full extent from us. We also looked like a pair of chimney sweeps from a Dickens novel, something that occurred to me on some detached level of existence and might have made me laugh in another set of circumstances. 

Between coughs, my eyes leaked, and the sobs came double time as I watched the paramedics do God-only-knew-what to Dick, cutting at his clothes, hissing and murmuring in low voices at his riven body, covering his face with an oxygen mask, preparing him for intubation, sticking literally _dozens_ of IVs in him. My eyes blurred as the tears poured militantly over my face. I wanted to look away, but much as I wished to, I found that I couldn’t. A part of me feared that if I looked away, I’d lose him — as though my gaze alone tethered him to this world. 

Voices bobbed around me in the air, all of them only half-heard at best as I focused hard on Dick. 

_You’ve never backed down from a goddamn thing, you’re a Flying Grayson, you’re fucking Nightwing, you’re the first Robin, you creamed Sportsmaster, for Christ’s sake, you’re tougher than this piddly shit, don’t, don’t,_ don’t _back down from this now,_ I thought fiercely at him, not taking my eyes off his shape. _If you do, I’m dying again and coming after you, capisce? Or I’m exorcising the living fuck out of your ghost in the most asshole-ish way possible if you even_ think _about haunting me before I can get there. Besides, you owe the_ shit _out of me for cock-blocking me earlier, got it?_

The techs were interrogating Bruce and me even as other EMTs performed vitals checks on us, their fellows peppering their symptoms-checking inquiries with questions about Dick, his age, his date of birth, allergies to medication, blah, blah — all the way up until they finally strapped him to a wooden board and loaded him into the ambulance that seemed transfigured from some object nearby. I didn’t stop looking at him once, and even when the door to the back of the ambulance shut, I didn’t tear my gaze away. Only when the vehicle vanished around the corner did I finally look down. 

At some point, I had sunk to the ground, sitting on the curb, my legs bent slightly, stretched out in front of me. Again, as I coughed periodically and my nose streamed under my searing eyes, I lost my foothold on the world. The larger macrocosm moved around me, passing by outside of the compressive, Plathian bell jar that stifled me within its vacuum, all of the colors beyond zipping past too dimly for me to perceive even one of them. My lungs stung with each breath I took — minor smoke inhalation, no treatment needed, follow-up in a week, rest in the meantime, y’all really bucked the odds! And blah, blah, fuckity-blah. 

More voices flitted in and out of my awareness, only a single one of them actually landing. 

“Mr. Wayne?” one of the EMTs said. “I just received word your son’s being life flighted to Gotham Mercy. RABE isn’t presently equipped or staffed to treat him effectively —” 

_Oh, thank fuck,_ I thought to myself. Dick had a snowball’s chance in hell if he went to RABE — but he had a glacier’s at Mercy, at least. 

I couldn’t even tell you what happened in the interim that followed that moment. I was inwardly focused, powerfully concentrating on one of those pivotal memories that cemented my feelings for my older brother, my predecessor. 

It was kind of pathetic, looking back — the level of hero worship I innately had for him, I mean. I was fourteen, lonely, neglected, and while Dick was every bit as tough as any slum kid I’d ever met, he never had to be an actual dick to prove it. No, not good, old Dickiebird. He was unfailingly warm, gregarious, and kind. And he was just _so_ unthinkably and easily compassionate. No one ever had to explain to him why he should care — he just _did,_ as naturally as breathing. It got _annoying._ Most importantly, he accepted me as his brother, immediately and no holds barred — something a needy fourteen-year-old couldn't exactly fail to notice. 

At first, that someone could be so _nice_ and _perfect_ all the time rankled. It didn’t make _sense_ to me — and made me glaringly, irritatingly aware of my own saltier, more volatile nature. Well, there _had_ to be a seedy underbelly somewhere in that flawless persona, I figured vengefully, and I was determined to find it. I picked at him, I punked him (I even hid his gym bag at school once — ah, glorious day), I maliciously competed with him for Bruce’s attention, and I even did some really nasty, hamstringing things to make him look bad — but those efforts to get under his skin guttered _fast_ when he came to me one night and called me out on everything. And not only did he do that, he made it clear in so doing he’d figured me out. 

He didn’t get up in my face, he didn’t rend the air, he didn’t throw down the gauntlet. This wasn’t an invitation to a fist fight in an alley to settle the score. I could have handled that. But he confronted me from a place of _understanding._

The _caring_ and the _empathizing_ pulled the rug right out from under me and planted me flat on my surly teen’s ass. I just didn’t have the tools to fight _that_ crap. In spite of myself, we were pals ever after. 

Cut to the night I sought to remove the Replacement, aka Tim, my… fuck, what was he now? My sort of potential future significant other? My suitor? Well, either way, that's neither here nor there. He was my _replacement_ back then. 

That night, he was patrolling Gotham with the other Bat Kids, all of them on the lookout for the notorious new criminal overlord, the _Red Hood,_ after he dispersed and cleaned up a sketchy coke deal that would have outsourced to dangerous crime families in the city. The same little ne’er-do-well hoedown that old Batsy himself had planned to crash that night, before I beat him to it. And he couldn’t have that, now, could he — Gotham was Batman’s territory, he operated on a stringent (and totally antiquated and pitifully unrealistic) moral code that he strenuously applied to all of his little brainwashed underlings and expected of any other wide-eyed vigilantes. 

Blinded at the time under the unending, acid green Pit Rage, I knew in my not-right mind what I wanted to do, as I tracked the Replacement down — I’d _beat_ him, _scare_ him, make him weep and crap his little unitard before driving a blade into his heart and leaving his body for my fucking traitor brother to find. 

Pictures of the two of them on Dick’s Instagram made me _sick._ Photos of Tim and Bruce as Batman and Robin via news outlets were bad enough — but I knew it was Brucie’s _guilt_ and attempt to medicate his unnavigable _feelings_ that caused him to latch on to the stupid Drake kid. 

But seeing Dick and his disgusting bromance with little Timmy, in the masks and out of them — I just felt _so completely betrayed._ My corpse wasn’t even cold, my new body not even warm, before he just up and started gallivanting around with some spiffy new replacement brother. Like I was a _puppy_ or something. One brother died, okay, here's a new one to cheer him up. I could deal with that type of shit from Bruce, who had a fucking excuse, but from _Dick?_

And where was _Dick_ the night I got turned into a can of crushed tomatoes and blown the fuck up? 

Honestly, I couldn’t _wait_ to see Dick’s face contort when he saw precious Timmy all maimed and laid out dead in the street, when I removed my helmet and revealed myself to him. I was _sure_ he’d show up to defend the Replacement, unlike me. Little Wing, back from the dead, out to take back what was his and remind Big Bird that he still had a little brother he’d conveniently forgotten about. And it was time for a _reckoning_ with his overlooked little brother. 

Jumping Tim wasn’t overly hard. The kid was still inexperienced and green around the gills and for the breadth of a second left himself open to attack. I leapt into action, and started the curbstomp that I’d fantasized about for _months_ prior. 

Unfortunately, before I could stick the knife in his heart, Dick and Babs showed up. Naturally. 

Well, whatever. The message was sent. I got out of the way of Barbara, and as I turned to sprint down the alley, I looked over my shoulder. 

“No hugs for Little Wing, Big Bird?” I said, and took off. 

When I looked back, Dick was _hard_ on my heels. Barbara had apparently stayed with Poseur Robin. Later, I heard Barbara was all righteously pissed not only because the pure and perfect Nightwing had abandoned little Timmy, but because of everything that followed, too. Babs always kept a clear head in every fucked up situation ever — something I’ve admired about her since the beginning. 

While Dick tended to maintain the same calm pragmatism even in the most fucked of fucked scenarios, he didn’t keep a level head at _all_ that night — and he had immediately sprinted off after me once he’d pressed the distress signal on Tim’s locator and urged Babs to stay with him. He didn’t even hang around to see what was what — he just took off full throttle in pursuit. 

I had expected shock, of course, some sort of agog reaction, maybe a half-hearted chase that would taper off when he remembered he had a _new_ little brother who needed his attention. I did _not_ expect Dick to leap into a sprint with a bound a wild deer would envy as he fell into pace behind me, closing the gap quickly and easily. 

I knew, looking at photos, that I’d outgrown Dick in my absence — taller, heavier, and bulkier. I didn’t expect him to overtake me so fast. 

But he did. I’d gotten slower as I’d gotten bigger — and Dick had only gotten faster. 

He caught up to me, barreling full-bodied into my side as I shifted my balance to attempt skirting him. His weight carried me sidelong into the corner of a dumpster that sat in the alley behind a restaurant. We both fell in a tangle of bruised limbs, and with blinding efficiency he pulled me into a bow and arrow choke — his specialty, and a wise grappling move for him as the smaller of the two of us. It was the same move he would later perform on Sportsmaster. 

I think, though, that a part of me _wanted_ him to catch me. 

“ _Start talking, asshole,”_ he snarled. “Who the _fuck_ are you — and _why_ would you say that?” 

In spite of his hot words, hopeful undertones churned in little eddies beneath the current of his voice. I reached up, pressed the button to release the helmet, and as it slipped off, I was able to squeeze my head out from beneath his elbow. Before he could get a look at me, I sprang away from him by my own brute strength. As he sprawled backward, I jumped to my feet, and loomed over him. 

“Not what you were expecting, Big Bird?” I snapped, holding his stricken gaze as I stepped fully into the sickly white light over the back door of the restaurant. 

“Jason,” he breathed, and surprised me when he tore the mask from his own face. “Oh, my God — Jason — ohmigodohmigod —” 

“Yeah, Big Bird,” I growled. “Ohmigodohmigod. It’s me. Back from the dead. Surprised?” 

He rose unsteadily to his feet, and what happened next was the last goddamn thing I expected. 

He fucking _hugged_ me. 

“Jason, Jesus Christ, you were _dead,_ they _autopsied_ you, we _buried_ you —” As he spoke, he sobbed, and tightened his arms around me. 

“It didn’t take,” I said icily. I didn’t move in his hold. “And you didn’t exactly hang around to see if it would.” 

He backed off, and took my face in both his hands. It was a gesture far from sensual — his touch was fraternal, familially nurturing, and served as the first dent to be thrown into my determined defense. His fingers curled in my hair as his eyes flicked over my face, settling on the tiny, almost invisible scar below my lip that I’d had since before I even came to be Robin. 

“Oh, my God,” he cried, tears falling over his lower lash line, and then a grin broke out across his handsome features, features that hadn’t changed much in the time I was gone, aside from only getting more obnoxiously handsome in its newfound maturity. “No, it definitely didn’t take… Oh, my _God_ , Jay, it’s you — it really is…” 

At the unbridled, unadulterated _happiness_ that overtook his features, lighting them up from within like his face were a shop window, the joy overpowering the warring emotions of grief, confusion and fear, I rapidly deflated like a 225 pound balloon. 

I had just laid Poseur Robin out on his ass. I’d beaten the stupid kid near unconscious, only pausing momentarily to admire his backbone and skill. Comparative inexperience was what had undone him in the end, not my own superiority. But the fact was, I’d just turned little Timmy into Hamburger Helper — and here was Dick, _rejoicing that I was alive._

Well, that didn’t exactly strike me as someone who had thoughtlessly replaced me, forgotten me as though I never existed, or even if I had, it had never mattered. No way. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. It was almost as though he’d waited and _prayed_ for this moment for years. 

“Dick, I just turned your wannabe kid brother into ground beef back there,” I said incredulously. “How the fuck are you so happy?” 

“I’m not even remotely fucking happy about what you just did, Jason, you giant asshole, and trust me, we’ll have words, you and I, but the fact is I can’t get over the fact that you’re _alive,”_ Dick said as his tears streamed over his smiling cheeks. “You’re alive, you dumb jerk, it’s you, and you’re _alive_ — and… you’re _huge!”_

And then I suffocated when he set upon me again in another of his notoriously bone-crushing hugs. 

(The thing about Dick is that he’s always given the best hugs. They were every bit as legendary as his butterfly kicks. The guy ought to have held a hugging booth at Gotham Academy. He’d have been as rich as Bruce by his own devices before the end of one school year.) 

So naturally… next thing I knew, I was crying like a pitiful sap, and hugging my brother right back. 

Dick brought me to his digs in Blüdhaven that night, where he and I talked until probably four the following morning. When he got word that Tim was going to be okay, he sat through a serious ass-reaming from Barbara for abandoning a teammate that needed him and chasing down a dangerous criminal by himself — _for Chrissakes remember what happened to Jason?! —_ and then I got to listen to one of the most satisfying arguments between Bruce and Dick I’d ever overheard. Brucie had already made the connection between me and the notorious Red Hood — oh, I’d ensured that. _You haven’t lost your touch, Bruce._ That dig was all the confirmation his existing suspicions required. A little DNA analysis, a couple of conversations, and Batsy was comfortably in the loop. But in typical fashion, he’d left little Dickie out of the Bat Circle of Trust — and Dick was _livid._

Dick’s rages weren’t common, but they were _gorgeous_ when they were set off — something like watching an approaching firestorm or a volcano as it vomits red-hot lava all down its lapidarian chin. Incendiary, sparkling, truly like a supernova. I sat in wholehearted satisfaction as he went off on Bruce over the phone in the next room. 

When he came back in, his eyes were red, his nose was running, and he sat down on his couch with a loud, wheezing _whoomph_ from the sofa cushions. I handed him the box of tissues from the end table, trying not to look as smug as I felt. 

Instead of opening up to me about his little telephone pow-wow with Bruce, he tearfully went all in on the brotherly interrogation, probing me until I’d given him the whole damn story about my years spent away from Gotham, my home sweet home, while the worms were _supposed_ to be playing pinochle on my snout. I didn’t want to let him in on everything — a part of me was still wary, still cagey, still hurt — but he dragged it all out of me in the end, anyway. Dick, just by being his naturally (and aggravatingly) compassionate self, had always inspired me to tell him everything there was to know, and to always give him the truth. He just… _deserved_ it, I guess, being who he was. And even if I didn’t want to disappoint him with a truth that might have been especially ugly, or share something discomfiting, I always did in spite of myself… because he’d _earned_ it. What the guy _didn’t_ deserve was to be had on like a chump. Enough people did that shit to him already. 

I slept on his couch that night, by then too fried to head back to Gotham, even though I had shit to do. It was just as well. I woke up screaming, like I always did, dreaming that I drowned in the lightning green waters of the Pit as it seeped into and filled my worm-addled, dirt-choked casket that held me trapped. 

And there was Big Bird, rushing down the steps from his garret bedroom, shaking me awake and by a miracle of God dodging a blow that would have given him a truly magnificent shiner. I clung to him in my confused terror as I fought my way out of the nightmare, which, no matter how many times I had the damn thing, left me a bawling wreck. 

I wound up cleaving to his wrist while he slept on the floor next to the couch. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but he didn’t complain. 

“No homo,” I muttered, grinning at him when we both woke up, my hand still grasping his. 

He grinned back, full well knowing my orientation by then. “No homo, ya handsome devil.” 

I focused full strength on that memory of him, getting assessed and checked out, and finally dismissed, on that sidewalk a ways off from that same apartment as it burned on July thirteenth, 2019. It all passed in a blur as I lost myself in remembrance, and as the memory played out, I _felt_ it — the raging, pacing monster inside me, the one I’d always had to greater or lesser extent, the one that the Pit fed and groomed and launched into full rabies mode, as it stirred anxiously, its lantern green eyes opening, its shoulders hunching as it lifted and rose to fill my core. 

The heat of its growling breath unfurled in my chest. My teeth ground to snapping. My fists clenched. I frenziedly pulled humid air into my blazing lungs. The beast circled in my belly, its motions lighting every one of my muscles, fueling my body, funneling my mind into a singular focus. 

What happened to Dick — that was the work of at least _two_ people. And whoever else did this to my brother, apart from the fucking clown — _they were dead._

And not just dead — _worse_ than dead. Tortured. Mutilated. _Suffering. Wishing_ they were dead. _Begging_ for it. 

And if any of my supposedly better-meaning pals tried to talk me down from this, I’d knock their goddamn lights out and step over them on my way out the door to do what the ever-hell I deemed fit for the piece of shit that signed himself up for the old express bus to hell. What my old chums, Tim included, didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. I’d keep it to my damn self. 

First things first. Find the fucking clown. 

Make him _bleed._ Make him laugh himself sick until he spilled all the beans about who he was working with. 

That thought led to an ugly flash of Dick’s mangled face and grotesquely everted torso. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting against it and the rush of nausea that roiled through my body. I’d seen plenty of blood and guts in my day, believe you me, and I could always be counted on to handle even the worst of all gory scenes — but the sight of Dick lying thrashed to bits was enough to turn even my scrap-iron stomach to rot. 

I exhaled as the illness and invertigo passed. 

Okay. Second things second. Find out what the fuck was up with Sportsmaster — because I had a pretty strong feeling he had something to do with this every bit as much as the Joker. Dick’s teeth were missing — don’t think I missed _that_ detail. 

And finally… the third to make the charm. Start looking into that chewed up bag of assholes Luthor. I didn’t have a _feeling_ about that one — I _knew_ he was behind the whole thing. Oh, Dick’s looking into his shit — beware the netsec geek, my son, the keys that clack, the scripts that _find!_ And then, oh. He’s blown almost in half and turned into a Picasso painting and left to fry. Coincidence? I fucking think not. 

I became steadily aware that I was standing, and that Bruce had come up to me. And seeing him there, in that moment, I couldn’t help but _thrill_ at what I saw. 

I saw _fire_ in his eyes — one to match my own, a spiritual, dangerous blaze far hotter than the fire that ate Dick’s apartment from the inside out like a furious parasite. Hotter than the center of the sun. Hotter than a blue giant. Hotter than hellfire. 

He drew me aside, away from the pandemonium of the techs and police that teemed outside of the building. 

“I just got word that Artemis is missing,” he said flatly. “Officially missing.” 

“Oh, goddammit,” I said, my heart falling all over again. 

“M’gann received a text from her earlier,” Bruce continued, “but given the nature of the texts Tim received from Dick’s phone and the fact that she’s not at her house, is no longer responding to her messages or calls, and no one has seen her or been able to locate her since the end of the performance earlier this evening, her absence is being treated as a missing-persons emergency by the League. All are on full alert and searching for her as we speak.” 

“Are we suiting up?” I asked, rallying, but keeping my voice low as he turned to start walking off. 

“We’re officially off duty — the only duty we have right now is getting to Mercy,” Bruce said. 

“What the _fuck?!”_ I exploded. “Goddammit, Bruce, if she’s missing, we ought to be out there with the rest of them —” 

He turned on me with a look that was powerfully final. 

“Don’t even start down that road,” he growled. “It’s my _grandchild_ , Jason. You think I don’t feel the need to be out looking for Artemis? That girl is my _daughter_ now — I feel the need. But goddammit, my son needs me, too — and he needs me _now._ I don’t know if he’ll make it to Mercy or not. I don’t know if he’ll see tomorrow. I find it highly unlikely he’ll ever meet his daughter, I’ll tell you that much, at least. But you listen to me — if he draws his last breath in that hospital tonight, he _won’t_ do it alone. I won’t just _leave_ him like that. I can’t —” He paused, and I was astounded at the sight of his eyes glimmering unsteadily in the light of the streetlamps and the fire that, by now, was tottering under the determined spray of the firehoses. “Jason, I _can’t_ let this be like you. I can’t go through that again. Knowing that I wasn’t there when you needed me… I should have… I should have been _with_ you, should have been by you, even if I couldn’t save you. I _can’t_ let it happen like that again. I _can't._ I need to _be_ there this time.” 

At that, I started to cry again — big, embarrassing, barking sobs, like someone just flipped the crying switch and out flowed the water works. Before I’d thought the action through, I’d thrown my all of my weight into him, encircling his waist with my arms, burying my face in his neck. 

I had never heard him say that was how he felt. Knowing it was never enough. To finally _hear_ it brought with it something of a bittersweet sorrow and a soft, gentle _release._

And Bruce held me — for the first time since I’d known him — _he held me._

“Come on,” he said after a time. “Chief Rohrbach offered to drive us to Mercy. I don’t know if you heard, but we haven’t been released to drive. I’ve been in touch with Alfred — he’ll deal with the motorcycle and meet us at the hospital.” 

I nodded and wiped at my eyes and nose, pulling my shit together, although the tears just kept coming. 

“Bruce,” I murmured wetly as I followed him. “If Artemis turns up okay, and I’m choosing to _refuse_ to believe she won’t… what the _hell_ are we going to tell her?” 

He was quiet a moment, and before we got within earshot of the officer that waited for us by her vehicle, he turned to me. 

“We’ll tell her this doesn’t end here,” he said, his voice every bit as icy as his eyes were febrile. 

I grimly held his gaze. 

“You’re damn fucking right it doesn’t,” I growled fiercely. 


	28. 7-15-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all!! <3
> 
> So Zoeleo is quite potentially the best person in the history of ever... thank you so much for the amazing insights and incredible beta work! <3 WHERE WOULD I BE WITHOUT YOU??
> 
> Dropping a day early since tomorrow is my anniversary and I'll be busy. ^_^ Much love, all, and happy reading! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_July 15, 2019_

_Artemis_

The sun canted weakly through its filmy cloud cover, listing across the windowsill in anemic shafts. It was hazy outside, the sky clotted with a sickly yellow rag that muted the color wheel of Gotham City. I lay in silence, staring out the window, not seeing much of what I gazed at. 

Monitors on my belly fed reports to a rolling sheet of paper next to the hospital bed. One kept track of Mary’s heartbeat. The other kept track of contractions. 

So I wasn’t in labor after all, in spite of the fact that I was having some decent, knock-me-over, make-me-wish-everyone-would-go-away-and-let-me-die contractions the night prior after my little girls’ night with Harley. But they were irregular and sporadic, sometimes coming every couple of minutes, and sometimes fucking off for an hour at a time. The goal wound up being not to help labor along (no bouncing on a labor ball for _you,_ young lady) — not only because I wasn’t technically full term, but because of the _trauma_ I went through (oh, la! What a _nightmare!_ Let’s all fan our faces!) Instead, they poked me with a gazillion IVs, sentenced me to forty-eight hours of observation, stress tests, ultrasounds, and “gentle bed rest” when I got home. 

Home. 

I turned away from the window, and gazed instead at the ceiling. 

A part of me _desperately_ wanted to go home, but the other parts of me just as desperately wanted to stay right here, in the hospital, where everything was _unfamiliar._ Where everything didn’t come with some brutal, pulverizing reminder — reminders that would render all the waiting horrors around me real and unstoppable. 

The breakfast tray sat like a sentinel next to me, punctuating the nausea that rolled in my stomach. My mom had wheeled off to seek some extra accommodations, probably to attempt needling a few bites out of me. 

I had spent the majority of the night before vomiting upon reaching the hospital. The whack upside the head that Harley had given me was sufficient to have me projectiling confetti from my guts, but at last learning the details of what had actually happened to Dick certainly would have been enough even without that little factoid. 

Lying in bed that morning, maybe I should have rejoiced more stubbornly, and more outwardly, that Dick was still alive, in spite of everything. Alive meant a _chance —_ even if only a ghost of one, there was a _chance_. But I couldn’t actively leap at the hope I still felt, not yet — as it stood, he was irreversibly in the _process_ of slipping away, and according to the doctor, we were all supposed to just cool our heels and wait for the inevitable _._

_But he wasn’t dead._ Not yet. And if he’d endured the hell on earth that he had, then he was alive by the skin of his teeth because he _wanted_ to be — he cleaved to life with white knuckles in a powerful, determined grip. Meaning he damn well hadn’t given up. He wasn’t ready. _It wasn’t his time._ And god damn it, it was up to the rest of us to bolster him, to _foster_ his fighting spirit. Everyone just going solemn and silent, throwing in the towel and obligingly waiting made my throat itch to _scream._

Still. I just didn’t _dare_ allow myself hope — at least, maybe not fully. Preparing for him to die, _expecting_ him to die, it would _surely_ make the unthinkable event of his death less atomizing, less painful. And maybe, if I were already grieving, anyway, his passing wouldn’t even make my eye twitch. Like standing in the pouring rain without an umbrella, _knowing_ I would get wet, and as such, remaining unchuffed by the downpour. If I stupidly hoped for something that seemed so impossible, wouldn’t the abrupt and crushing loss of that same hope leave me so _deflated_ I just ceased to be, vanishing into thin air just like Wally? The easier route, the more surefire way to stay traught under such news, would be to just give up before it could even happen. 

However, the grasping thoughts moved without cease like a determined parade through my mind, performing a loud, bleating melody of (probably laughable) suppositions. Maybe some miracle working doctor would fix him up good and proper, modern medicine has come a long way since those dark years before penicillin, after all! Perhaps Bruce would determine the horrors of the Pits to be paltry against what Dick had already endured — sign him up for a dip in the green jacuzzi, becoming the Head of the Demon and leaving Dick to go _Pet Sematary_ on everyone back home was but pennies in the karmic coffer! Hell, maybe _God_ would decide that Dick’s time wasn’t up, that he was just too important in the ultimate war between good and evil, and pull him right up out of his casket as though we suddenly found ourselves dumped in an episode of _Supernatural._

Before Roy could explain that Dick wasn’t actually dead through my furiously thrashing arms and my torrent of throat-rending screaming, I just couldn’t _absorb_ the idea — couldn’t seem to make my surroundings _real,_ couldn’t validate what I felt even as the tears poured zealously over my face and onto my neck. All that seemed real was an immediate and rapidly descending _darkness_ — one that was total and encompassing, that abruptly swallowed the entirety of my existence, crushing me within its black vacuum. 

Hearing that Dick still lived, even if _it was bad,_ that was the tiniest dot of light that poked its way into that black, impenetrable shroud. I aggressively raced for it like a lost traveler in the desert rushes for an oasis. I couldn’t let that darkness manifest. I _wouldn’t._ I resisted it every bit as riotously as I resisted my dread only moments before. 

I visualized that proverbial spot of light in my mind’s eye, clinging to that image even as the rhythm of swiftly worsening contractions funneled my whole world down into a lightless void of unrolling pain, condensing my middle into a dense, magmic stone. I quickly became fearful that this was it, that ready or not, here baby comes — to hell with good timing. I sweated and panted, resisting the crushing fists that closed around my abdomen the entire helicopter flight to Gotham Mercy. I threw up after nearly each contraction, vomiting until I had nothing _left_ to expel and the emesis turned to empty heaves. 

_Don’t, don’t, don’t,_ I begged my body, _don’t do this now… He needs to_ be _here, and he needs time, please don’t do this now…_

The doctor on duty in the ER, once there, determined that the intensifying contractions were set off because I had “about as much water in my body as the surface of Io” — i.e. not a whole hell of a lot. That I wasn’t dilating seemed to confirm that, and while breathing through a cannula, getting wrapped up like a human taquito in a hospital gown, robe, and blankets in an effort to quell the unending chills that wracked my body, and imitating a porcupine with all the IVs jammed in me, I sat through exams and tests, too sick and exhausted and focused on my little pinprick of light to really pay attention to my surroundings, minus having my entire world funnel down into a void of thoughtless, unrolling pain when a contraction struck. M’gann, who accompanied me to the hospital, held my hand through these, talking me through them, her familiar voice grounding and calming me. 

But the knowledge that I wasn’t in labor allowed room for fear, _real_ fear, for Mary — and swiftly, she became all I could focus on with any special sort of clarity otherwise. My breathing came rapid and shallow, even with the assistance of the cannula, while I waited for the emergency ultrasound to get underway. 

It wasn’t until the ultrasound revealed that Mary seemed “perfectly fine, none the worse for wear,” that I found myself able to draw in real breaths that properly filled my lungs. M’gann and I leaned into each other as she audibly expelled a sigh. The spot of light in my mind’s eye grew a little brighter. 

Midway through the precautionary stress test that followed the ultrasound, my mother _finally_ arrived, a blessed knight upon her four-wheeled steed, rolling toward me with a morose resolve. I was so relieved and overjoyed to see her that I about _fell_ out of the hospital bed, toppling over to her so she could catch me in her well-known embrace. The monitors that kept track of Mary’s heartbeat and my own slowing contractions shifted out of position in the process. The nurse, as she repositioned them, didn’t chide me over it. 

My mom didn’t speak much after her initial expressions of fear, sorrow, and relief — seeming to know that everything that had transpired over the course of that bizarre, hellish night was whole universes past words. Too much had happened, too much was _still_ happening. No amount of words could hope to encapsulate any of it. She just sat by my bed, leaning across the arm of her chair parallel to the mattress, her hand grasping mine as the monitors conducted the stress test. 

I was permitted to sleep afterward, because when put to the task I _could_ carry on a conversation, my pupils dilated properly, and I could walk in a straight line. But as I lay in the hospital bed, the world at last decelerating in its wild sprint and the cacophony of unending _noise_ that surrounded me quieting enough for me to begin _processing_ all that had transpired over the last harrowing hours, I found I _couldn’t_ sleep. Fatigued as I was, Slumberland was somewhere on the other side of the solar system — if it was even in the _same_ solar system. Although we sat together, all of us irrevocably awake, none of us spoke. 

At that point, we were _waiting._

Under the rest and influx of fluids, the contractions had tapered, and my body sank heavily into the mattress, every muscle spent, past exhaustion. 

_This can’t be happening,_ I thought suddenly. _It can’t. It’s not. It isn’t._

I lay staring at the ceiling, all at once overcome by a thrumming, darkening numbness, as I tried to assimilate the events of that strange, terrible night. 

Dick was, so Roy had told me, dead for sure, a definite goner — but _was_ he? 

_Artemis, I don’t know all of what happened, I just know it’s bad, it’s really bad, they said he doesn’t have a chance, we’re all just waiting now —_

I ground my teeth, and snuffed the sound of Roy’s voice from my thoughts. I hadn’t even _seen_ Dick — I had _no_ idea what actually happened, and neither did anyone else in any sort of tolerable detail. And that aside, no one was _telling_ me anything — other than that he was badly hurt. And whenever I tried to ask, everyone got this _look_ on their faces, the same look a vet at the zoo might have gotten approaching a furious, angry, injured tiger, one past saving, with a euthanizing syringe. It was _infuriating._

I dropped off at some point in the predawn hours into a fitful doze, coming to here and there, too confused between stunted, Harley-centric night terrors, which made me jerk and perspire in a cloying blanket of fear, to integrate full wakefulness. The sky through the window was lightening into a muted periwinkle by the time I fell at last into a dark, soundless sleep. 

When I woke up, it took me a disoriented series of sweating moments to remember where I was, and what had happened. Paddling my way out of the pool of deep, dreamless sleep, I realized I was still in the hospital. M’gann was no longer there, I saw as I blinked away the sleep-grit that clouded my vision. Zatanna was with my mother at my bedside now. The room was dark apart from the light of the television set in the corner, the illumination a soft, blue glow. The blinds were drawn against the outside. 

My mom rested in her chair, her head propped against its back. I noticed belatedly that her hair was tousled, her clothes mismatched. One hand extended from where she sat, leaning propped against my forearm. A tissue tottered limply in her other. 

Zatanna was in a chair beside her, staring at the television, unfocused, disinterested. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks inflamed. Her wavy hair was an uncombed mess, her own clothing a careless patchwork of yoga pants and a white tank. Her feet, one curled under her, were bare. Flip-flops lay forgotten on the floor. 

Still befuddled, I sat up in bed. 

“What time is it?” I asked, my voice a weak husk. 

She looked over at me with her puffy eyes. They glistened in the light from the TV. 

My heart slid into my stomach. Dread rose into my chest to take its place. Why was she crying… 

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said with a wan smile, and sniffed. “It’s…” She pulled her phone from the formica nightstand. “Just after ten. At night.” 

“I slept all day?” I asked, blinking, briefly taken aback. 

She nodded with a feeble amusement. “You needed it, Arty.” 

“Have you heard anything?” I said. I kept my voice low so as not to wake my mother. 

Zatanna was quiet for a moment. 

“I have, yeah,” she finally said, sighing. “Artemis… it’s not good.” 

My teeth clenched. If I heard that one more time… 

“ _How_ not good?” I asked. 

She looked at me with a grim sorrow. “…Dr. Thompkins told Bruce she doesn’t think he’ll make it past tomorrow morning.” She paused, and rolled the hem of her tank between her fingers. “I wanted to be here with you if…” 

She trailed off. 

“Zatanna, what _happened?”_ I asked, fighting a feeling of desperate exasperation. “All I keep hearing is that it was bad, whatever it was, but I don’t even know _what happened —”_

Zatanna leaned over, and caught my hand. “I know, Arty. I’m sorry. Honestly, we don’t have all the details, either.” 

“Can you at least tell me what details you _do_ have?” 

“We just…” She shifted in her chair. “We just know the Joker was involved.” 

My mouth went dry and my eyes welled. Of course, I’d known as much, even if I didn’t want to admit or consider it. 

_While Daddy Jay finishes what he’s doing…_

I inhaled, and quelled the reflexive shiver that passed through me like a wave of scuttling insects. 

“What it looks like… is that Dick was lured to his apartment,” Zatanna was saying. “The landlord was found dead, tied up in the office of the apartment building. The last call he made was to Dick. Seems fairly cut and dry.” 

I didn’t speak, just listened. 

“And then… Dick was attacked at his apartment,” Zatanna continued. Her voice was ponderous and quiet. “They think he was shot first through his midsection with a shotgun. Severed the entire base of his spinal cord — lower half was practically free-floating in his body, almost…” 

My stomach lurched, and I shook my head, my heart declining in my shivering chest. My gut paddled sickeningly. 

“Oh, no…” I said, my ears filling and ringing. 

Zatanna just nodded, not stemming the flow of tears from her reddened blue eyes. 

“Then… they beat and tortured him, and finally lit his apartment on fire before they left,” she said heavily. She closed her eyes, and opened her palm over her face. “At least Bruce and Jason found him before the fire could reach him.” 

My throat hardened into a bulging, burning balloon. “…What did you mean by _they_?” 

“From what the crime scene revealed, it looked like the work of at least two people.” She sighed. “Barry volunteered to work on it, so… he kept us in the know.” She swiped at a tear that dropped from her eye. “He said it had to have been two or more.” 

My teeth clenched as my heart accelerated. 

“Where’s my father?” I asked, carefully measuring my tone. 

Zatanna heaved another sigh. “By all appearances, he’s still at Belle Reve.” 

“Has anyone spoken to him?” I queried, unable to keep a tremble out of my voice. 

“They’re going to,” Zatanna assured me. 

“Harley brought him up more than once,” I hissed fiercely. “Zatanna, he put her up to kidnapping me. He preyed on her because he _knew_ she was vulnerable. And he did it because I pissed him off, no other reason. He _has_ to have had a hand somewhere in what happened to Dick.” 

Zatanna surprised me when she nodded. 

“There’s no doubt, Artemis. Dick’s teeth were knocked out of his head. Don’t think none of us picked up on the larger implications of _that_ detail.” I winced, my heart flickering in my chest. “And honestly — there’s no doubt as to who’s _ultimately_ responsible for this, either. Those machines Dick was investigating for the League in his apartment? Gone.” 

My stomach shifted. That would be a whole other feat to prove. Luthor tended to cover himself with infuriating efficacy. 

“There’s a watch on Dick, before you ask,” said Zatanna. “We don’t want to take any risks. If it gets out that he’s still alive, even if…” She trailed off, and seemed to shake herself. “He just shouldn’t be left unmonitored right now.” 

“…Has he woken up at all?” I asked, glad that at least he was under protection. 

She darkened, and shook her head. “…I don’t think he’s going to, Artemis. He’s in a coma. Thompkins said it’s just a matter of time.” 

_No,_ I thought with ferocious determination, knee-jerking contrarian. _No, it isn’t — it_ can’t _be, and it_ won't _be._

Rather than hold my friend’s somber, despairing gaze, I stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. 

“Zatanna, is he here?” I asked. “At Gotham Mercy, I mean?” 

She nodded. “I might have gone stealth mode and snuck in to see him after he got out of surgery round who-knows-how-many,” she admitted. 

I ruminated, lying still, cementing my decision. 

“…I want to see him,” I murmured. “I _have_ to see him.” 

She was silent for a moment. 

“Right now?” she asked. “Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure,” I said. 

She eyed me with an unwavering gaze for a long time, an incomprehensible uncertainty and sorrow in her eyes, before she finally nodded. 

“All right,” she said. “You sure you’re up for the walk?” 

“I’m sure — any harm done to me I probably did to myself trying to run away last night, anyway.” 

“I heard they pulled a lot of splinters out of your feet,” Zatanna said, smiling weakly. 

“I couldn’t run in those dumb sandals,” I said. I waved a hand. “Practical footwear now.” 

Zatanna reached over, caught my fingers, and squeezed my hand. “You _sure_ you’re up for this? I mean, just for yourself?” 

“Yes,” I said. “My mom probably won’t want me out of bed, though.” I glanced at the monitors that I was hooked up to. “And neither will the staff.” 

Zatanna stood. “I can take care of all that. Sorceress, remember?” 

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I said, giving her a smile. 

She leaned down to hug me tightly enough that I worried briefly she’d squeeze the baby right out of me, then fiercely whispered, “I love you, too.” 

She murmured a few words, sending the machines into an unaffected rhythm that would go on until I got back. I slid out of bed as Zatanna whispered more words over my mom, words that would keep her sleeping, I assumed, and followed my friend as we walked through the tiled halls of the emergency department — brighter, cleaner, and far more vibrant than those of the kitchen halls I’d raced through at Old North, but eerily similar, somehow, and I caught myself jerking my head around when I momentarily thought that Harley was behind me. I started and my heart banged into the roll of a snare drum. I stumbled over my own feet. 

“You okay?” said Zatanna, grasping my hand and squeezing. 

I sucked in a breath, released it slowly, and fought to anchor myself. 

Finally, I nodded. I closed my eyes, and held Zatanna’s hand, allowing her to guide me until we got out of those frightening, reminiscent halls. 

Gotham Mercy was more like a campus, and our walk to the ICU brought us outside into the nighttime humidity for an interim stroll through the Wayne Memorial Garden. We could have traveled between the buildings through the glass tunnels that joined them, but Zatanna explained that this way was faster. I didn’t mind as I gazed at the flowers in their well-tended beds as they nodded under the yellow pathway lights, at the grass beaded with moisture, the dew gently fondling each verdant blade with soft fingers of rich gold. 

Zatanna whispered another series of words — words that didn’t seem to do anything as we approached the black glass building that reached like a spear of obsidian into the blotted night sky. I leaned toward her, falling into pace beside rather than behind her as we made our way inside. 

“What was that one?” I asked. 

“Just a diversion spell,” she replied. “People will see us and not notice us. That’s the concept behind it, anyway. So… while they’ll be _conscious_ of us, they won’t pay us any mind, or even care that we’re here.” 

“Oh,” I said. “Wow. That’s actually really cool.” 

“Thanks. It’s new,” she said with a smile. 

“It’s useful,” I remarked as we passed by unworried staff. 

I was in a hospital gown and robe, and in spite of the walk through the July mugginess, I was shivering in both as we threaded the halls and stepped into a marble-lined elevator. Reaching the third floor, we followed the path of another marble hall, and passed the vestibule that marked the entry of the intensive care unit. Again, the staff paid us no mind as we walked by. 

Each room in this ward was individual, the unit expansive enough to accommodate singles. From the doors hung dry erase boards with patient names, assigned nurses and doctors, conditions, caveats, medications, care schedules, and so on. I curiously took note of the ones that caught my eye as we slowly walked the hall, the last mile. 

Dick’s room was nearer the next vestibule on the other side of this hall, close to another corridor with an elevator visible around the corner. His door, via its dry erase board, loudly declared in capital letters, _R GRAYSON._ Beneath, in little lower-case whispers, were listed his nurse, _Ramya_ , and his doctor, _Thompkins._

Zatanna turned to me, downcast, her lips colorless in her blanched face. 

“I feel like I should… probably warn you beforehand,” she whispered. 

I nodded, anxious, apprehensive, and impatient all at once, and she squeezed my hand. 

“You ready?” she asked. 

Again, I nodded, and she opened the door. 

The beeps greeted me first, the little electronic, synchronized philharmonic of _bloops_ and _bleeps,_ joining together to create a chorus of sound like something you’d hear in an old NES game. The light from the machines merged gently with the soft glow of the sconces set into the far wall, caddy-cornered from the window, which allowed a runny inflow of multicolored city light to stream lazily into the room and mingle with that of the monitors and lamp. 

Bruce was there, blocking my line of sight where he sat in the chair beside the bed, his back to us, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together in a bone-popping grip. He looked over his shoulder as we entered, but like the staff, didn’t seem to take a whole lot of notice of us as the enchantment held fast. He stood, and ghosted past us through the door to walk down the hall, without a word or a glance. I released a breath. 

“He looks awful,” I murmured, and Zatanna just bobbed her head in a half-hearted nod. 

I focused on every other detail, familiarizing myself with the room before I allowed myself to look at the single, narrow bed that stuck out like a white, wrapped proboscis from the wall, between the machines and door. I inhaled, readying myself. I cupped my belly when it tightened a little (just Braxton-Hicks that time, I noted subconsciously with a flit of relief.) My free hand gripped Zatanna’s as I let my eyes finally settle on the bed. 

Everything in me and around me slowed and became leaden, as though my whole form and the world were abruptly subjected to double gravity. My hand fell sluggishly and heavily from from Zatanna’s, sliding away as all the heat was taken out of me in an instant. 

I might not have known it was Dick lying there in that bed, if not for the name above the door and the fact that Zatanna had brought me here. Even his hair, normally an identifiable feature, was only ambiguously his. It lay flat and heavy over his face and across the pillow in a black, lusterless smear, no longer the tantalizingly soft, glossy tresses that made my fingers itch to touch them. 

“Oh, my God…” I exhaled, the words sliding from my mouth on my outbreath. 

Zatanna didn’t speak. 

_No one who looks like that should be alive…_ my mind whispered. 

Each step I took toward him was slow and cumbrous, as though pulled through thick, puckering quicksand. At last making it to his bedside, a quiver began in my middle, my chin undulating as the shiver slowly unfurled through my body. 

I had to sit under the weight that pressed down suddenly on my shoulders, pushing me with a thump into the seat that Bruce had occupied only moments before. 

“Dick,” I murmured, reaching over, and taking his free hand, the hand that wasn’t imprisoned inside a splint. I wasn’t sure why I spoke his name. I knew in that moment that he wouldn’t answer. 

And, of course, he didn’t. He lay silent, not even giving so much as a flickering of response, his body totally, totally still — _foreignly_ still — sinking beneath the white blanket into the mattress under him. 

“It’s me, babe,” I said, reaching over, and gingerly brushing at the oily hair that fell over his forehead. Involuntarily, I cringed, my legs going watery and my stomach turning over in a wet, sickening flop at the sight of the unhindered panorama of his face, revealed in its gruesome totality when the thick curtain of dark hair was lifted. 

I couldn’t even _reconcile_ what I saw with the bubbly, cheerful, energetic man that I knew. 

Bruising, like so many other things, looks different than it does in the movies — uglier, more severe, less artful. An entire side of Dick’s normally handsome face was a matte, moldy purple, flowering here and there into hard blooms of unvariegated black, all of the flesh swollen and obfuscating what features remained visible under the tape that held the respiratory tube in position against his slack mouth. Strips of butterfly bandages opened across his right orbital and over the bridge of his nose. Strings dangled from his nostrils — they’d packed his nasal cavities. His lips, parted slightly around the vent, shone with surgical glue fusing together lacerations both on top and bottom in livery daubs of dark, blotted red. One arm was in a splint from his hand to his elbow. The hand I held, his left, was reddened and mottled with marks and bruises, every one of them excruciatingly painful looking, all the way up to the sleeve of his hospital gown. One leg was also splinted and elevated, reaching out alongside the folds of the blanket across him. His other was in one of those compression pads that prevent blood clots, its _shoomping,_ clicking sound pulsing in a perpetual downbeat. His middle was covered with the blanket. I was thankful. I didn’t want to see it — not even the bandages that might have hidden his most devastating wound itself from my sight. 

_Wounds,_ I numbly corrected myself. His entire center mass had to have been peppered with pellets. I noticed suddenly that his chest had been intubated. A thick, cloudy liquid that looked like a viscous, maroon-amber beer slowly drained into the tube that reached out from beneath the blanket, extending from his side under his arm. Doubtless, a pellet — or pellets — had landed in his lung, portending a lifetime of chronic, painful respiratory problems. 

Among others. _So many_ others. 

I had, long ago, memorized the basics of muzzle velocities of different weapons. Zatanna had told me that Dick had been hit with a shotgun. The slug would have passed at 1,300 feet per second. That was the speed at which Dick’s entire life had been upended. 

_Severed the entire base of his spinal cord, lower half was practically free-floating in his body, almost —_

I caught my breath, momentarily squeezing my eyes shut, resisting that thought. 

One of his eyes was tolerably undamaged, the long wing of heavy lashes a stark, black ink stroke atop his white, bloodless cheek. The few unspotted inches of flesh he had were entirely colorless or an unsettling, bilious yellow. I lifted his limp, heavy hand and pressed it to my face, the tears dribbling rapidfire onto the surface of his skin as my eyes _finally_ welled and spilled over. 

Even if he did wake up — and seeing him now, my resolved flickered, wavering in a breath of doubt — he would not, and would never, walk away from that bed. Nor from any other bed, ever again. He wouldn’t walk with me, side by side, through the rocking waves at Happy Harbor. 

I couldn’t bear to let that realization breed more thoughts, all of them wicked gremlins spawned from the original, each one more hideous than the last. But out they burst in spite of my resistance against them — if Dick wouldn’t be walking away from that bed, or any other, what did that indicate on a broader scale? What _else_ would he never do? 

Would he even be the man I remembered? I wondered wildly, the thoughts pouring too swiftly into my mind to stall them. Or had all the brains inside his skull been beaten and scrambled to a frequency incapable of channeling even low levels of awareness — would he be damned to live an existence tragically parallel to that of the uncle he was named for? 

I gripped his hand, and cried soundlessly into his palm, his fingers curled flaccidly against my cheek. 

_Don’t think about that, Artemis, don’t think about that, you_ can’t _think about that, it’ll be okay, it_ has _to be okay, he’ll have you, he’ll have his friends, he’ll have his family, he_ won’t _be alone —_

And then I just sobbed harder, a bitter, blazing rage whirling up inside me, converging with the sorrow and anguish. He had been _alone_ when this happened, when this unimaginable horror was done to him. _He had been alone._

I became aware of Zatanna as she approached me, and gently laid a hand on my shoulder. I let go of Dick’s hand, lowering it to the surface of the bed, trying through my own shaking not to let its limp weight flop around too much and injure him worse. I rose, and hurled both arms around my friend, pushing my face into her shoulder. 

“He was alone,” I bawled, past self-control, knowing on some detached level I’d left my dignity _far_ behind me at Old North the night before, anyway. “Zatanna, _he was alone.”_

“I know,” she whispered. She was crying, too. 

“It’s so unfair — _it’s just so goddamn unfair —”_

“Yes, it is.” 

“How did no one _get_ to him on time — _how?_ How could anyone have let this happen? _Where was everyone?_ ” 

She shook her head. “We’ve all been asking the exact same things, Artemis.” 

She coaxed me away from his bedside, drawing me a little ways off, and just hugged me for an indeterminate time as I at _last_ sobbed away the pent-up, brimming onus and distress that had burgeoned and festered over the last horrific twenty-eight or so hours. 

When I stepped back, my face raw and tingling, my chest aching, my stomach tight and sore, I sniffed and dragged my wrist under my pouring nose, hitching a little. Zatanna released me, and, drawing a breath, I slowly approached Dick’s bedside one more time. 

I bent, cupping his slick hair under my palm, and gently touched my lips to the undamaged patch of skin on his forehead. I hovered over him for a moment, the distension of my belly pressed against his unsplinted arm, my hair dangling across his face and shoulder. 

“Don’t give up, stud,” I murmured to him, stroking his hair. “I’ll wait for you — however long you need. Okay? Just _please_ don’t give up.” 

I straightened, and although I didn’t want to leave him, I _knew_ I had to think about getting back. For Mary’s sake, at least, if not for my own. We passed Bruce on our way to the elevator, where he floated by without so much as a shared glance, although my eyes trailed him as he walked by. He’d raided the coffee stand while he stepped out, evidenced by the cup he held. Something about that image of him — the shoulders hunched under his shirt, the hair that was unkempt by his usual standards, the haggard lines etched into his face that had aged ten years in a single night, the cup of coffee clutched within his hand in the way a distressed child clings to a security item — started my tears up all over again, but there was a small, bittersweet relief at the sight, as well. As much as I wished to stay with him, there was comfort in knowing Dick wouldn’t be alone. 

When I made it back to my own hospital bed, Zatanna returned to the chair beside my mother’s, borrowing a pillow and blanket to doze off with her head braced against the nightstand. I lay wakeful until the following morning, my mind turning in neverending circles, pacing like an anxious animal. 

Inwardly, I waged a grueling battle, pinballing violently and endlessly between a summit of hope and a pit of despair, bounced and rocked in both directions until mentally, I started to lose my footing, and my brain felt so _stretched_ I didn’t have a chance at articulating them any longer. 

_You_ need _to hold onto what hope there is, Artemis,_ I berated myself, soundly putting an end to the argument. _No one else is. And someone needs to. Someone_ has _to do it for him._

Even though I’d decided on the camp in which I’d plant my flag, I couldn’t relax enough to sleep or even really rest, lying fully wired, sweating and shivering under the knitted blanket in the hospital bed. The moon arched and lapsed in the sky, visible for a time through the window. Mary had her accustomed wakeful period in the middle of the night, proving she was her father’s daughter even in the womb. The thought had once unfailingly charmed me, but it carried with it a sinking regret, then. 

_Stay traught,_ I reminded myself fiercely. _You can’t give up. You can’t lose heart. He_ needs _you._

When the moon fell, and the sun lifted, Mary at last settled. My mom roused from her doze, almost as though on cue. We exchanged some words, but I felt somehow hair-triggered, overstimulated by the slightest incitement, and I tapered off speaking after a while. Mom, for her part, didn’t seem too inclined to conversation, anyway, her own demeanor weary and just _so_ overwhelmingly sad. I sighed, and reached out to her to take her hand. 

This had to be a truly devastating heartbreak for her, I thought, and one more deeply personal than might have been expected on first glance — but how naturally and quickly had she come to call Dick her son, without so much as the beat of an eyelash? How often did she go pink in the cheeks, flushed with warmth and pleasure, whenever Dick dropped all formality and just called her “Mom?” Wally’s loss had _equalized_ her, just as it had the rest of us, and she told me more than once that she was so thrilled we’d both found our own joys in Dick afterward. I didn’t know, as I lay there holding my mother’s hand, if she held out hope, or if she’d rolled over like everyone else apparently had. But I _ached_ for her, even as my stomach twisted and rolled with my own heartsickness and grief. We stayed like that all morning while Zatanna dozed, our hands clasped together, silently sharing pain. 

I wondered where Jade was, and why she hadn’t come to see me yet. We’d grown closer over the last few years, since Lian was born. I fought with feelings of hurt and concern over her absence, worrying so hard that I managed to unravel a decent portion of the corner of the hospital blanket. A handful of times, I opened my mouth to ask my mom if she knew where Jade was, but each time, I decided against it. If Jade had gone after Harley, which I knew she had, and she still hadn’t shown up… I wasn’t so sure I _wanted_ to know where she was. 

I was equally unsure if I wanted to know what had become of Harley. She’d have undoubtedly met a _bad, bad_ end at the hands of my sister. 

A nurse came in sometime in the mid-morning, and asked after when I wanted breakfast, and what I wanted to eat. Dizzy with pervasive nausea, I tried declining, but I received a gentle reprimand over the fact that I hadn’t eaten in nearly a day and a half, and just as gentle a reminder that I _was_ still eating for my baby, you know. 

Chastened, I obligingly attempted food, although it congealed in my throat, tasteless, pasty, far from enjoyable. I focused on sipping at the cranberry juice, instead, and finished most of the Jell-O, at least. I decided to praise myself for succeeding in that much. 

Another nurse came in and set me up for the stress test, informing me that Dr. Jeun would be along to see me soon. It was about then my mom ducked out to find me some food that might go down a little easier. 

While Zatanna slumbered in the chair, her head heavily propped against a spare pillow, and the monitors clicked away as I waited for my mom to return, I just stared out the window, weighted and inert atop the hospital bed. I fought hard against the clawing, persistent doubt, resisting the easy road of surrender, and clung stubbornly to what hope there was, wondering all the while what the _hell_ I was actually going to do. 


	29. 7-16-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's poppin, y'all!! <3 ^_^
> 
> Have to say, it's been a long time since I worked with Bruce, and I was SO happy to focalize him again. :-) 
> 
> All my love and endless thanks to my beloved Zoeleo for her wonderful beta work. <3 I'd be lost without you, my love! <3 ^_^
> 
> Much love and happy reading, darlings! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 29**

_July 16, 2019_

_Bruce_

Stepping into the Batcave after days spent sitting by Dick in the hospital had something of an invigorating effect, breathing life into atrophied muscles and air into heavy, strangulated lungs. My fingers squeezed into fists, cracking my knuckles in a series of staccato pops. First things first. 

The Joker wouldn’t be difficult to find. He was assuredly engaged in some ludicrous scheme to gain my attention, likely some such madcap bid as painting an enormous red bullseye across his torso and victoriously dancing the Charleston atop Wayne Tower, even as I entered the cave. A murmuring part of me wished profoundly that he would just dive face first from the top of the building to attain my notice and be _done_ with it. 

I felt no shame, no compunction whatsoever at this thought, which was something more of an unspoken wish — rather, I felt the tantalizing, gentle tease of a far-reaching _relief._ This dangerous whispering might have put me on alert at any other time, but that night, it merely made me — _very seriously_ — consider the ramifications of meeting the Joker atop the tower and _hurling_ him from it. 

But those considerations led to quandaries that branched themselves into entire systems of questions, uncertainties, and puzzles, each of them contradictory, all of them oxymoronic. I gritted my teeth, and closed my eyes — the backs of my eyelids forever tattooed with the image of Dick lying prone, helpless, unrecognizable in his hospital bed. 

I released a slow exhalation, the outbreath hot through my nostrils. What had happened to Dick had been the work of _partners._ It hadn’t been difficult to deduce, even on first glance through the smoke at the scene. But even if I was damn well aware of the identities of those that had sought to end my son’s life, there was only _one_ that commanded my focus with so insular an intensity that nothing else had the slightest chance of visibility that night. 

The others could wait. 

Luthor sat triumphantly upon his proverbial throne, steepling his fingers in victory, fully comfortable with the unfolding of events. The machines that might have incriminated him had vanished before ever being brought to public light, and as of now, there was no legal tie between Nightwing and Dick Grayson — meaning, there was also no tie between Luthor and the fire at the apartment. Luthor would, as always, remain pristine under scrutiny, with no solid connection between the trafficking, Dick’s attack, his materials, and himself. The fire would be chocked up publicly to an unfortunate accident, and Dick’s extensive injuries to the blaze itself, the more suspicious wound kept private. And Luthor would get all that he desired, and rest comfortably in his win. 

My teeth clenched to the point of pain. Very well. Allow him to be satisfied. I was happy to permit him to think that he had won for a time — and then tear that throne right out from underneath him when he least suspected. Publicly, and _humiliatingly._ I no longer gave a damn that he was sick. 

Sportsmaster was confirmed to be in Belle Reve, although there wasn’t a doubt in my mind he’d had a direct hand in this lurid nightmare. And like Luthor, he, doubtless, was sitting on his own victory, smug in his success, and equally, not making physical progress in any direction outside of the penitentiary gates. At the first opportunity, I’d gladly be paying him a civilized visit — one involving broken orbital bones and jaws, and loudly issued demands for _detailed_ information. 

That also could wait — for then. Crock was in solitary, accounted for. 

But the Joker was _unaccounted_ for — loose, mad, ravening, and _waiting_ for me to acknowledge him and what he had done. 

My fists clamped. My heart thundered. The blood in my ears bellowed. 

His horrific actions were _beyond_ shows of morality or betterness, and they were even beyond the concept of _winning._ I had held out against _ending_ the Joker for interminable, arduous years for those same reasons — and also under the awareness that the second I crossed that line, there would be no going back, no backpedaling. To end the Joker would end the Batman — and I _could not_ suffer the Joker to have that, not after all that he’d taken. I could not permit him that victory. 

But now… What, exactly, did that matter — _any_ of it? Did it matter at all? What the _hell_ was it all for? Why did I do as I did — why did I _continue?_ Where on God’s green earth and in all the black universe was I to go from that point? 

This bred the larger questions of what was it that I _wanted —_ and what was it that was _needed?_ What would Dick want, and did that even matter? All my own desires aside? 

I never wished to relinquish the greater meaning behind the cowl, what it stood for, what it represented. But this forbearance, was it _needed_ now? Did I need to release its meaning, _shift_ its meaning?To do what was _necessary —_ whatever that might have been? 

My breathing accelerated as sweat teased my neck. 

Was it time? 

And _could_ I open myself to that possibility, recognize what needed to be done, if so? 

This night, _this_ night would be the preeminent trial, the paramount test of everything the cowl stood for. 

I braced inwardly, pushing back against the weighted decision that threatened to crush me beneath it, the knowledge that if I dared, that if I opened myself to it, the Joker would lead to Sportsmaster, who ultimately would lead to Luthor. And would I _stop_ there, or would this be my Pandora’s Box? 

My lungs flared, inflating with a sharp inhalation as my chest involuntarily rattled in anticipation at the thought of crushing Lawrence _Crusher_ Crock’s skull under my fists, cracking Luthor’s neck in a single swipe — and _destroying_ the Joker, leaving little more than a smear of gore behind after subjecting him to every evil and horror that he’d inflicted on countless others since he’d begun his twisted career. 

There wasn’t a soul on this earth — or any other hospitable planet in the universe — that would mourn the goddamn clown. Harleen was dead. 

The news had brought with it some sense of regret, a darkness that filtered into the pit of my heart. She was every bit as much a victim of the Joker’s sick spree of depravity as the slews of others he’d ruined and killed. 

From what I had learned, Quinzel had fallen through a window at the Old North building during the skirmish with Jade Nguyen. Zatanna had been momentarily incapacitated, knocked off her feet after taking a blow to the gut from Harley Quinn’s mallet, and Cheshire had chased their quarry into a room out of Zatanna’s line of sight. Sometime during the brawl, Harleen had lost her footing and gone through the window, the glass shattering and frame splintering around her. She fell nearly eight hundred feet before she gruesomely crashed atop the rocks just above the waterline. 

Jade maintained that it was an accident. There was no evidence to suggest that it wasn’t — but there was none to suggest that it was, either. 

Not so far, anyway. But somehow, I doubted that it would be pursued with any real urgency. Harleen had left precious few behind, and that she’d kidnapped a pregnant member of Young Justice with every intention of murdering Artemis and tearing the unborn child from her body didn’t inspire a lot of sympathy or sorrow over her passing — and nor did it light many fires beneath the already busy posteriors of investigators. 

Forensics or no, I knew that Jade Nguyen had thrown Harleen Quinzel out of that window, forcefully, and purposefully. Premeditatedly. Her plan concocted even before the skirmish began, and executed with lethal efficiency. That she hadn’t vengefully sliced Quinzel to pieces was likely due only to maternal pragmatism, and the desire to return to her daughter at the end of the night. 

It was _tragic,_ what happened to Harleen — not merely the event of her death, but the events that led to it. All of it should have been preventable — and this knowledge only made my knuckles pop again, more deeply this time, as I considered the weapons case beside that which held the suits. 

Would the same lack of proactivity be exhibited if the Joker were to have a similar _accident_ — or to simply meet a similar fate? 

I stared at the weapons case, vibrating, every nerve sharply alive and on serrated edge. 

I owned firearms. The ability to handle one was a skill I felt to be as necessary as swimming or CPR. I abhorred their use, but that night, and another night so similar years before, they tempted with their sleek, slender barrels like beckoning fingers, their mouths like dark, seductive eyes. 

_No,_ I firmly told myself. _No. You can’t. You_ can’t. 

But it was with a sense of severe reluctance that I bypassed them, and suited up with my standard utility belt. 

All the while, I mentally fixated on the image of a glaring, blackened, reddish hole opening up in the Joker’s forehead through the smears of grease paint, the fantasy smudging out the sights around me as I grimly prepared myself. I took in a breath, trying to shake the feeling that I’d _forgotten_ something as I, again, bypassed the weapons case, and made my way to the Batmobile. 

“I don’t suppose I can convince you not to go,” came a familiar voice from behind me. 

“You can’t,” I told Alfred, turning to him before popping the hatch to the vehicle. 

“I expected as much, and so I will not, sir,” he said. “But I also won’t allow you to exit this cave without a word of caution — and this, as well.” 

I paused, and rather than slide into the cockpit of the armored vehicle, I turned to face him directly. 

A pang of irresolution struck me when I saw him, standing hunched and drawn, his face pinched into sharp peaks under a net of bone white, wrinkled flesh. Alfred had been elderly when I was young, but I had never truly seen him as _old_ before — withered, gray, undeniably long in the tooth. He had seemed an ageless, immortal entity, unaffected by the passing of time. But it was clear from the physical signs available to my eyes that Alfred, like me, had failed to catch even a moment of rest as Dick stubbornly clung to life in the hospital, showing no signs of surrender even as the rest of us, save Artemis, waited for the inevitable, unable to sleep until the news came, and his age, at last, came creeping up on him. 

As for myself, it was only when Dinah forcibly relieved me did I leave the hospital. Jason had left the night before with Tim. 

It was hardly a secret to me, Tim and Jason, but out of respect for the fact that neither of them had let me in on their updated personal information, I didn’t let on that I picked up on their undertones and overtones. For his part, Tim, the second he entered the hospital room, unhesitatingly walked to Jason and drew him into a close, hard embrace with an equal lack of hesitation. It was a common enough exhibition over the last few days, the act of physical touch — Barbara had powerfully held me in her strong, trembling grip when she paid Dick her visit, not the most usual of overtures from her where I was concerned, in her uncharacteristic action both extending and eliciting comfort, heedless of the fact that I was a little staggered. However, I comfortably recognized the signals the boys broadcasted — hardly those given off by Barbara as she held me. 

I had sat in my seat as my protege embraced my son, unperturbed by the display — in fact, rather grateful that someone had extended reach to Jason. Although I was aware, _glaringly_ aware, that he needed it, I could not give it — I was scarcely holding my own tossing emotions in check, hardly capable of restraining them and holding them captive within their cell deep inside of me, and as such, I found myself mere seconds from overstimulation, on a profound hair trigger that, if pressed, might lead to God only knew what. 

However, I was surprised when Tim reached a hand over, snatched my shirt sleeve, and yanked me to both of them to include me in the hold — and I stood, initially discomfited, but a moment passed, and then two, and I found that I needed the contact as much as Jason did. Tim had a knack for that sort of canniness — recognizing and reading signs and responding to them, even when it was difficult for him. It was likely why he bonded with both of my sons so quickly, and most notably, with Jason. 

“Barbara and I are going to look into Luthor from the cyber side, pick up where Dick left off,” Tim murmured to me just before he left with Jason. “No stone left unturned, Bruce — and we can find stones and sources the police and even League resources can’t, even just on our own. There _has_ to be something, somewhere. We’ll find it.” 

I nodded, and Tim and Jason gave Dick a collective, exceptionally regretful glance by way of farewell before they left. 

I had no intention of resting as Dinah encouraged me to as she relieved me of watching over my son, however, exhausted as I might have been, and I doubted Jason was prone and slumbering. Matters more pressing than an overdue respite enticed both of us with greater urgency. Considering the gravity of the situation, I had kept an eye and ear out, a way of maintaining subtle tabs on Jason. 

Thus far, he had not surfaced, but I didn’t believe it would be long before he did. I had to move. 

Alfred pressed a bottle of water into my hand, along with two tablets that I recognized to be multivitamins. 

“If I know you, Master Bruce,” he said, “you’re presently subsisting on caffeine and more caffeine. Please, at least hydrate and take these in lieu of rest and food before you go and do that which you feel must be done.” 

I obligingly quaffed the capsules and half the bottle of water before handing it back. I crossed my arms. 

“You want to say something,” I said, not inimically. “Say it.” 

There was quiet as Alfred studied me a moment before speaking. 

“Very well, sir. It is my belief that you ought to remain here to rest and recharge, and approach this with a fresh mind upon waking. You have not slept in days — that much is clear. And this is hardly a standard evening of patrol in Gotham City — this is a _reckoning._ You ought to be in top condition for such a thing. But… I also understand that rest is far off and long coming — and that the Joker will not wait patiently for your attention in the wake of what he has done. Evil waits for no one, pauses for nothing. So _go_ — and do as you see fit.” 

I eyed him a moment, knowing something else was coming as he paused. 

“However…” he murmured, his eyes dark and inscrutable, “I beg you not to _lose_ yourself or your beliefs in the process — whatever happens, and whatever you choose to do. For your own sake, Master Bruce.” 

“He who fights with monsters must take care that he himself does not become a monster,” I said, and then released a grim breath. 

There was another moment of quiet. 

“…I’m not sure I can make any promises, Alfred,” I added heavily. “Not tonight.” 

“Nor do I expect you to,” he told me softly, “minus that you will come home.” 

He stepped toward me, and embraced me about my shoulders. I stood a moment, taken aback by this uncommon gesture, and then, my arms moving slowly and cumbrously, returned his hold. I warred between discomfort and joy, a habitual reaction to touch that Dick picked up on and teased me relentlessly about any time he hugged me — but the warmth of that rare contact from Alfred infused into my form like a spiritual balm. 

It struck me, as I stood like a cumbersome statue within the aging strength of his arms, that when I petitioned the state to legally adopt Dick, the real hugger in the family, _that_ was when Alfred had first begun to shrug the aloof, properly mannered mantle of butler to the Wayne house, a veneer that he had maintained throughout my childhood, teen years, and young adult life, shedding it at long last like an ill-fitting snakeskin that he was ready to be free of. The transition from stiff, formal butler to loving father and grandfather had been subtle, unmarked for an extensive period of time by any physical displays of closeness or affection, but it had gone on, nevertheless, and over time, it engendered a sense and feeling of family that I thought I had lost in the alley as a child, never to enjoy or call my own again. 

The manor had only become fuller and happier still with Jason, as both boys raced through its interior with the boundless vigor of youth, each of them individual pictures of what drove me, what made me who I was, what lent _true_ meaning to my being, and what rendered all the hard work I endlessly did _worth_ doing. It was all too often cripplingly difficult for me to articulate my emotions, put my thoughts into effective words, all of them endlessly stalling somewhere in my chest and throat — but they were _there_ , all the same, filling me up and motivating my every action and validating my very existence, even if I couldn’t verbally or expressively spell them out so easily. And my sons put them there, for the first time lending belief and idealism to my life’s mission — no longer merely the desire to mask and undo the pain of the alley, erase the echoing sound of scattering pearls from my recollection. 

How much more would the Joker _take_? He had stolen both my sons from me — even if Jason had returned by some lunatic twist of fate, his world, his life, all of it had been everted, transmuted, upended. He had unfairly been robbed of _so much_ — _too_ much. And now, there was no telling what the future held for my oldest son, the son that I knew had been as much my mentor and savior as I had been his. One thing I _did_ know — Dick’s life would be every bit as profoundly transposed as Jason’s in the wake of the Joker’s sickening evil, if he lived at all, or even woke. That subhuman monster had stolen _everything_ from both of them — and what he had just done days before transcended the greater picture, the roles of Sportsmaster and Luthor. That he had set out to brutally murder Artemis, a woman I regarded to be my daughter, in cold blood to tear her child, Dick’s child, _my grandchild,_ from her body with every intention of using the girl as a goddamn _tool_ against me — there were no boundaries, no limits, no _end_ to what he would do. 

The Joker would never stop. This would never end. It would just go on and on, an unending isochronism, as everlasting and immutable as the cycle of water and the earth’s tireless rotation on its axis. 

But it _could not_ go on any longer. _It could not._ How much longer would I suffer that beast to prowl the earth unshackled, insatiable, ravening upon the blood of innocents? How many more would he devour because I had sat on my hands, stood by my pitiful, and in Jason’s words, _antiquated_ personal code? 

I was losing my son — all over again — because I hadn’t been able to do what I _should_ have, when I was able. 

Arkham _couldn’t_ hold that monster, Belle Reve _wouldn’t_ hold him, Blackgate _shouldn’t_ hold him. I closed my fists against Alfred’s back. It was in _my_ hands now, and mine alone. _I_ would be the one to put an end to his infinite madness, because I was the only one who truly could — and _would._

I could only pray that I wouldn’t go too far — whatever _too far_ might have meant. 

I backed away from Alfred. He did the same, and with a nebulous sense of loss and a curt nod, I slid into the driver’s seat of the Batmobile to track down the Joker on a wing and a prayer. 

******* 

As I expected, he wasn’t difficult to find. He _wanted_ me to find him. He _waited_ for this moment, anxiously as I did. 

And he ensured that _where_ I found him would be nothing less than the most hurtful strike to the gut. 

All I had to consider was where would I find him that would carry the most pain, the most personal of blows, bear the most agonizing weight. Even minimal detective skills could narrow down the most likely of places. 

He was at the second location I probed. The first I sought to explore was the burnt-out shell of Dick’s apartment. 

Dick had mentioned briefly to me as we went over his will and life insurance with the attorney only months before that he wanted to be buried next to his parents in the event of his death. That the Joker had come into the knowledge of Dick’s civilian identity spelled a whole new world of tools to use not only against him, but me, as well. 

I found the Joker languishing with his back against Dick’s father’s tombstone in Woodland Cemetery, resting on the lush summer grass. He was surrounded by lit vigil candles, and on the empty plot next to that belonging to the Graysons, there was a pile of flowers, cards, balloons, teddies, and God knew what else. The outside of Gotham Mercy had looked much the same as I left its confines, crowds of the city’s denizens having stood vigil to varying degrees for some days, all of them leaving flowers and lighting candles and penning notes. I’d had to default to every stealth trick I possessed to avoid the teeming press and crowds outside the hospital. The Watchtower, from what I understood, mirrored the walkways surrounding Mercy. 

A twisting feeling lashed in my gut at this repulsive sight, all of it a mockery of the public support that Dick had been shown in the wake of the fire, and I accelerated in my steps, all sounds decrescendoing into a hum blocked out by the reverberating boom of blood in my ears. 

The Joker sang happily to himself, snapping his fingers, rocking his knees in rhythm to his singing. The suit he wore was spattered and smeared with old blood — doubtless, my _son’s_ blood. 

And that — _that_ was where it all began. 

My vision tunneled at the edges, my sight now a lens focus that blotched everything around the Joker into a meaningless blur, all of it veiled under a curtain of acid, screaming _red._ My awareness seemed to _lift_ inside my body, my essence rising, continuing away from the shell of my corporeal form, leaving only a physical chassis full of raw, untrammeled _fury_ behind. 

“Ah! It’s the Bat, come to keep vigil for the sick birdy!” the Joker crowed as I swiftly closed the distance between us, my arms extending away from my core, my steps quickening, my heart blooming sharply in my chest. “It’s been _days —_ but Senpai finally noticed —” 

I shot one hand out and snatched him by the throat, cutting his words off in a squawk. 

I said nothing, heard nothing, and saw little as I slammed his face into the corner of Mary Grayson's tombstone. The mother for whom Dick and Artemis named their daughter, my granddaughter. A smear of blood, a deep, glittering maroon in the diffuse light from the lamps that lit the cemetery’s pathways, spread across the sharp angle of granite. I allowed the Joker to fall, listening disconnectedly to the cackles that burst from him as he crashed to the grass. Two of the candles guttered and winked out. He lifted to his hands and knees, giggling madly. 

“That’s right, Batsy, show some _feeling —_ let it all out, it’s good for ya!” he sang gleefully, slurring his words only slightly. He was accustomed to taking a beating. 

But not like this one. Never like this one. This one would be fast, efficient, effective — and the _final_ beating that he would ever endure. 

I drove one heel into his ribs, toppling him to his back. I dropped the same heel on his chest, the _snap_ of his breaking sternum deafening in the comparative silence of the cemetery. I let that sink in a moment, every molecule quivering by now, my skin tingling and itching, scarcely holding my muscles in check. 

“Coach did that — to your boy, you know, after I _shot_ him —” the Joker wheezed, grinning up at me, his lips red with blood beneath the lipstick smears. “Shut him up _real_ quick —” 

My body moving on pure intuition, none of my limbs in motion by any sort of volition or agency, I fell to my knees, and cracked a fist against his mouth, my other against his cheekbone. 

_Stop,_ I heard my voice growl, and I was uncertain if the word was actually spoken aloud. _Stop._

“He begged —” the Joker gasped, “oh, your budgie _begged,_ you should have heard him, it would have won an Oscar in a movie — some fanboy would have quoted him on his Twitter profile —” 

_STOP._

This time, I struck him in a repeating series of blows, all unleashed in rapid sets of four, a drummer’s rhythm of Moeller strokes. His teeth cracked and popped, choking his gibbeting laughter in his throat. His orbital bone splintered into crumbles and his nose caved, smothered beneath a rising penumbra of gore. His back hit the ground, flat against the grass, and I snatched up one hand to break his fingers, one by one, all of them snapping in muffled _thunks_ that throbbed in the thick, loaded hush of the cemetery, each breaking bone eliciting screams of high-pitched giggles and cries. That he didn’t once fight back or lift a hand to defend himself didn’t matter — and neither did it register. 

With a deadly efficiency that unsettled me on a dissociative level, I gripped his leg in both hands, at the ankle and quad, to dislocate his knee with one powerful twisting motion, the _thop_ sound reverberating throughout the muggy stillness of the graveyard, and then, as he cawed and reeled, I produced a crowbar from my utility belt. 

I held it up briefly, allowing it to catch the light, bracing it over him, _showing_ it to him. 

_This is for both my boys, you son of a bitch —_

“Tell me,” I breathed hoarsely, my voice a deep, thrumming boom as I recalled something that Jason had confessed to me in an angry moment of outpouring, “what hurts worse — forehand, or _backhand —”_

And then, as I slammed the crowbar down in a backhand strike that tore the flesh from his cheek, shearing it away in a ribbon that arced through the air above the pathway lights and beneath the leafy umbrella of trees, sprinkling blood across the markers, grass, and flowers beneath, I _let go_ — and _did not stop._

His back teeth, the teeth that hadn’t popped from his gums, were visible within the gruesome fissure left by the impact, giving him the eerie look of a grinning, blood-streaked skull with his wide eyes and white-painted face. I struck at those teeth, bringing the crowbar down in a singing swipe upon them, shattering them into shrapnel, splitting his tongue and rending his lips. He gagged and bellowed, the sounds punctuated by the echoing cadence of his neverending laughter and jumping with each blow I landed. 

All I saw was Jason’s mangled body, Dick’s deformed face, the leaping fire and billowing smoke. I didn’t see — or even assimilate — the sights of the Joker’s features as they caved and twisted, rolling into florets of gore that blurred beneath the red curtain cast over my vision. Every inch of his body that I could reach, that I could land a blow upon, I struck — severely, powerfully, endlessly. Bones cracked. Blood sprang from wounds to surge through the still, heavy air, spattering my suit, dark on black, hidden warpaint. 

Only when the unending giggles and unintelligible babble slowed somewhat did I finally toss the crowbar away and grab the Joker by the crushed velvet lapels of his suit coat, the material stiff and gummy with my son’s dried blood caked all over it, and hurl him with all of my strength into the trunk of a nearby tree. 

He crashed against the bark, the impact briefly curling his body around its ovular length before bouncing him away to land in a worming pile at its base. I strode to his writhing form, breathing heavily now, my heart hammering not only with adrenaline but exertion, and grabbed a handful of greasy hair at the nape of his neck. I hauled him up, bringing him to eye level. For one short, loaded moment, the silence shrieking with unspoken, furious communion, I looked him dead in his reddened, swollen eyes — and then, with an almighty effort, I yanked his body down to snap his back like a stick across my armored knee. 

He crumpled at my feet, the silence positively thunderous in that moment. 

And then, he was yelling — _really_ yelling — through the endless, bewildered laughter, pinballing between whoops and jeers and gasps and cries. 

“Oh, y-y-you’ve done it _now,_ Batsy — they’ll have your guts for suspenders — those Leaguers will —” he gasped in his weakening voice, giggling wildly, his breath coming in wheezing spurts. “What will — your boyfriend Superman — think — what will — your little birdy — _boy toy —_ think —” 

I looked down at him, my bloodied chest leaping steadily, only registering that I’d just crippled him on some distant level, one as far removed from this plane of existence as the fabled Planet X. 

_Bruce, even if Dick wakes up, he’ll never walk again. Even with magic in accepted existence in the world we know, he’ll never walk again. It’s just not possible._

Thompkins’ voice rang within my anamnesis as I pitilessly let the Joker squirm at my feet, his legs motionless putty, rocked occasionally with powerful convulsions that wracked his thin form. Blood sputtered from his red, riven lips in a pink froth, spilling and boiling over his grease painted chin, his uneven, humped chest lifting in a panicked rhythm beneath the shirt and suit jacket. Blood oozed fresh onto the material, new mingling with old. 

I felt nothing for his circumstances, staring at the Joker as he twitched under me. 

Nothing. 

_He’ll never walk again._

“Neither will you,” murmured my voice, a deep, ululating growl, hardly audible, and entirely involuntary. 

What I _did_ feel outside of reaching apathy and dispassion for the Joker’s newfound situation was a swelling _rage_ for the monster himself _—_ an undying fury that burgeoned inexhaustibly within my diaphragm, shoving my breath into uptempo bursts, my heart into a roll so fast I doubted an individual beat could be detected. 

_Bruce, that will kill him, it will_ kill _him, it’ll kill him before any of this shit does —_

Jason’s frantic words, issued in the wake of Thompkins’. 

And was he wrong? How could one take the last of a species of exotic bird, tear off its wings, cage it, and expect it to live? 

But Artemis had staunchly maintained, when I stopped in to see her before leaving Mercy, that she wouldn’t _allow_ it to kill him, that she would care for and support him in any way he needed, _when_ he woke up. She stressed vociferously and with increasing heat that he would, growing only more insistent as those around her cast doubt on her assertion. 

I didn’t shed the ugly color of realism on her rosier maintenance. The hard fact remained that Dick had been crippled and brutalized, and while I could dwell on the possibilities until cold reality ceased to hold any sway over my beliefs, the here and now demanded my immediate attention. Whether or not Dick would live, wake, or walk meant little in the present tense. All that mattered _right now_ was that this uncollared beast still drew unhindered, unaided breath. 

“Don’t you — don’t you _know,_ Batsy?” the Joker slurred suddenly, breaking his rhythm of chuffing and laughter, leering at me with his one half-open eye. His words were scarcely intelligible through the ruination of his mouth. “Haven’t you… figured it all out? I’ll be… so disappointed in you… if you haven’t… Bats, I’m not the _real_ bad guy here, the other guy —” He wheezed, “ _made_ me do it…” 

“Luthor hired Sportsmaster,” I stated curtly. “Sportsmaster approached you, somehow, be that from Belle Reve or in person — doesn’t matter. He sold his own daughter and unborn grandchild to you and Harleen Quinzel. I know damn well what happened. It was all easy enough to piece together.” 

The Joker laughed, a plinking blurble of guttural chuckles. There wasn’t one whit of reaction at the mention of Harley’s name. “We made a hell of a dream team, he and I… he say he don’t like me much, but his face don’t lie… His lips say shut up for life, but his eyes say lick my knife…” He looked up at me. “Makin’ me so proud, fillin’ me up with glee… Do me one last solid as I lie here at your eternal mercy… _prove_ me right… _send me into that goodnight…”_

I stood as his words pulsed in the silent cemetery, and stared down at his grinning, skull-like face, its flesh split down one side in a grisly interstice. 

Something settled on me in that moment, something as thick, quiet, and creeping as a dense, wet fog, when I remembered the gut wrenching sight of Dick lying disabled and comatose in his hospital bed, stagnant between worlds, stripped of his identity and cognizance, all too likely never to open his eyes or hold his daughter, and the concept of death suddenly seemed, in some such way, a mercy. 

So I _didn’t_ send the Joker into that goodnight. 

Instead, I knelt, and drove a fist into the center of his forehead, countless times over, until I at last silenced his echoing chuckles — but _not_ the drumming of his heart. 

If my son — my son who was _innocent_ — would suffer for the rest of his life, so would this manifestation of evil. 

For as long as Dick’s pain went on, for as long as Jason’s trauma did the same, so would the Joker’s. 

He would not be permitted mercy when my sons were denied it. 

He could not be permitted to win — not in even the least stringent sense of the term. 

I hit. And hit. _And hit._

I hit until my fists ached, even through the armored gloves. 

I hit until every bone in that creature’s body was a splintered ruination. 

I hit until the Joker wasn’t even _identifiable_ as human — a fitting skin for such an _inhuman_ demon. 

But when I at last ceased striking him, my fists numb and my forearms ringing, my shoulders knotted, my back a mass of burning fire, and I sank slowly back, gazing in the sudden and permeating silence at the Joker’s prone, mangled body as his chest feebly hitched in the stillness of the graveyard, a cold, numb dismay pooled icily in my center, slowly brimming within my core. 

The humidity of the Gotham night surrounded me, close and smothering. Fingers of sweat rolled down my back and forehead, my eyes stinging as the perspiration dribbled from my brows, mingling with the tears that I hadn’t even realized were there, streaming tepid over my hot cheeks. 

_Look at what you’ve done, Batsy,_ whispered the Joker’s voice from somewhere within my own mind. _Take a look and_ see _what you’ve done…_

I descended to my seat, my hammering heart slowing in my chest, the chill grip of reality slowly settling over me. 

I hadn’t killed the Joker. 

I hadn’t proven him right, hadn’t done him his desired final solid. He did not win. I had given him the right to his pitiful, miserable life — and I hadn’t permitted him to go free, either. Rather, I had ensured for him an existence of struggle, of _pain_. Of suffering to match that to which he’d doomed my son. 

But I knew, gazing down at the mangled, twisted body in the stifling quiet, that I had not won this contest any more than the Joker had. 

The meaning of _too far,_ it was in a heap in front of me in that damp graveyard. Even if I hadn’t _killed_ the Joker, wherever the line was, it was miles behind me now. 

And Dick was still lying in that hospital bed, the Reaper hunched over him, his sickle prepared to harvest his soul. Jason still woke sweating and screaming, haunted by the horrors of crowbars, explosions, and suffocating caskets chased with lightning green waters. I still saw the bodies of both my sons, destroyed and drenched in the blood that the Joker had shed, the cemeteries he’d filled. 

Stalemate — or _loss_. There was no such thing as _winning_ in this terrible game. 

And perhaps… perhaps the Joker knew this. Maybe he _knew_ this was where I’d find myself, and any outcome would suit him as comfortably as the blood-soaked, crushed velvet tuxedo that adorned his broken form in tattered shreds. 

There was no change, no shift, no climax. No resolution. 

I stood, and let the tears come into the numb fist that I pushed against my face as I pressed the button to alert the League, my heart a dense, weighted stone inside my chest. 

And I withdrew into the night. 


	30. 7-18-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning, all... :-)
> 
> So I MUST call out Zoeleo for being not only the best beta on earth (I feel like we have this sort of Tim Gunn and Mondo Guerra thing going on... NO JOKE XD) but also for being the best person on earth. <3 Supportive and encouraging in personal matters, too. :-) All my love and thanks, dearest... <3 I've said it before, I'll say it again, where would I be without you! <3 ^_^ YOU. ARE. THE BEST. <3
> 
> Should probably cite my literary references -- some Blindness, Les Miserables, Oliver Twist, Harry Potter, Watership Down, It, The Road, poetry blurbs by Sexton and Plath, and I think a handful more that I'm not recalling off the top of my head make their way in here. <3
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy. :-) Much love and happy reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF <3

_July 18, 2019_

_Jason_

Even at the demonic witching hour of 3 in the morning, Arkham wasn’t the quietest of places. Voices hummed as the staff bustled, their murmurings echoing in soft relief against the rattling of the air conditioning vents that spoke loudly within the halls. I was comfortably out of range of any security cameras, hovering on the outside of the building, casing the interior through the feed that read into my helmet — a feature that _might_ have been inspired by Jarvis on a less erudite reading endeavor from my teen years. 

I caught wind of what it was I waited for, plugged in one of Dick’s scripts that he’d bequeathed to me to bug the relevant security cameras, and began my repelling descent to the untended flowerbed on the ground below. 

As I subtly made my shadowed way around the outside of the Arkham edifice, its stony, shambling heights reaching into the cloudy night sky, I imagined there was a girl with dark glasses and a dog of tears beside me as we followed our guardian, the lone eyewitness to the atrocities within the asylum as those inside lay afflicted with the white blindness, away from the horrors that only she had seen. I was the boy without a mother… and now, all too likely to be without a brother, as well. 

I shook myself. I was always living within stories, within books, assimilating the (commonly shitshow) world around me into an understanding I could grasp through the more appealing tales that I read. I was Oliver Twist, Gavroche, even Harry Potter when I landed in Wayne Manor. Jose Saramago’s parable of loss creeping up on me as I stalked through the rambling garden at Arkham Asylum made some terrible sense, I suppose. 

Dick would not go quietly into that goodnight — he had stubbornly refused to lift his foot and kick the bucket, _thus far._ But I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long coming. Dick had gone into multiple systems failure earlier that evening. It was nothing shy of a goddamn divine miracle that he wasn’t totally braindead, only breathing by the grace of a bunch of emotionless, detached machinery, waiting for Artemis to be kind and sign the papers and allow him to move on (and she was making it _very_ clear that she’d fight even that tooth and claw, if it came to it.) And if Dick was hanging by a thread before that incident, he was hanging by a fucking microfiber now, and frankly, Bruce the same. 

I paused, and inhaled slowly through my nose, exhaling equally slowly through my mouth when the helmet seemed at once stifling and heavy. 

Bruce. 

He was a whole different story — and the catalyst to where I found myself that night, traipsing like a fleet-footed kender over Arkham’s grounds, seeking the sublevel portion of the edifice — the building’s intensive care unit. 

The Joker waited there, incapacitated, as unresponsive as Dick — and every bit as likely to die after Batman all but _destroyed_ him. 

And I couldn’t let that happen. 

I made my way across the grounds, keeping to the shadows, expertly avoiding guards and motion sensors. I ended up in the southwest quadrant of the property. My utility belt was fully loaded, but only one weapon mattered that night. The sawed off shotgun I carried — the one I’d pilfered from the BPD’s evidence room, the one that the Joker used on Dick. Blüdhaven’s security was embarrassingly simple to circumvent — the gun was easy to pinch, and would be equally easy to return. 

The Joker’s death wasn’t a burden for Bruce to shoulder. If the Joker died by his hand, _the Batman_ would die — and if the Batman died, so would Bruce. Slowly, but surely. 

It had taken years of sifting through a deep and endless heartbreak for me to understand Bruce, he the colossus of buried, condensed emotion — _marble heavy, a bag full of God_. I dwelt on and ached over the fact that I just didn’t seem to matter enough to him to end the Joker’s reign of terror over Gotham City after he _took_ me from him, the only father I’d ever known, for time equivalent. That I didn’t rack up sufficiently to be deemed worthy of vengeance, of backlash, of _response_ sat like hot rocks in my heart and gut. 

More than once, I lashed out at Bruce in the months after my return, claiming that if Dick were the one killed, Bruce wouldn’t even have hesitated to _end_ the Joker. In spite of Bruce’s protests, with an icy fury to match mine heated, I staunchly maintained that he’d have gone out with a firearm, blown the clown’s head off, and turned himself in the same damn night before letting the murder of his _favorite_ son go. 

That was a verbal knockdown that went on for longer than an hour, an argument that threatened to cause the first cave-in since the Batcave was conceived of. 

A great many talks with Alfred, Dick, Tim, Barbara, and Bruce himself were had before I realized just how affected he truly was — and a very candid chat with Superman was the final requisite for me to understand that Bruce _had_ come to teeter on a knife’s edge over crossing that line for my sake. 

Still, that the Joker lived festered like a noxious, aching sore. None had effectively dealt with that monster — all of them allowed my nightmare to live and walk, free among the innocents, a Yee Naaldlooshii assimilating the guise of humanity, slaking its bloodthirsty lust. 

The Joker had fooled psychiatrists into marking him as criminally insane, which was, pardon the term, a total fucking joke. He could have functioned comfortably in society, playing the game, donning the appropriate carapace. The advent of the Batman brought him out of his passive functionality, motivating him to appear from hiding, a snake slithering into its real skin. And the second _consequences_ reared their triumphant heads, he played the Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity card — with disgusting efficacy. 

Meaning, the worst he had to deal with was Arkham Asylum — and never the death penalty, in spite of his heinous crimes. 

And witnessing Bruce in the graveyard, where I happened upon him in my own search for the Joker, some nights prior, as it lay sleeping but for the two visitors in its after hours, I knew — and understood — that the Batman couldn’t be that penalty any more than the law could. 

And I finally, _finally_ knew and understood that Bruce, while he loved Dick and me differently, loved us the same. He loved us both. 

That it had taken me _so goddamn long_ to figure that out left me groundless, sinking slowly through air all at once heavy and dense, my heart making a similar descent into my lapsing stomach. 

To say I felt a terrible, overwhelming compunction and guilt over how I responded to and interacted with Bruce over the years since my return, my behavior seeming suddenly insular and selfish, would understate it — and by an unfathomable margin. And to also say that I felt a renewed, heightened warmth and gratitude to the man that took me under his wing, expressing his love for me in his stolid way, and who stood admirably by the values he created and that inspired leagues of people the world over even through unthinkable hardship, would be the truest statement I could muster, although to do so would hardly do my kindled emotions real justice. 

Humbled, I stood with my back to the trunk of a tree, took a breath, and reanchored. 

I didn’t stop Bruce as he brutalized my murderer and Dick’s mangler, watching from where I hid in the shadows of the trees in a sort of paralyzed awe, at last grasping the _depth_ of Batman’s sense of retribution, what it indicated, what it _meant._

Death at the hands of the Batman could be _mercy._

Bruce beat the Joker _to the pain —_ not to the death. Arguably, a fate far worse. 

And Bruce seemed to know as much — and _hated_ it. He sank down next to the twitching body of his (entirely deserving) victim, observing in obvious dismay the Joker’s twisted form, before rising and pressing the button to alert the League — not the authorities, only the League. He laid one clearly tired, resigned hand against his forehead. 

I couldn’t let it go any longer. I approached Bruce as he melted away from the scene, drawing him away from the Joker’s near-dead body, pulling him from it before the League could get there, along with whatever authorities they would drag into the mix. He didn’t seem overly shocked to see me, but _I_ was shocked to see that he was crying — _he was fucking crying —_ and I was again struck with a powerful sense of deja vu. Was this how he had appeared the night he beat the Joker into a body cast after what was done to me? 

I did the only thing I could think of, seeing my foster father in that state. I caught him in a clutching, frantic hug — a _real_ hug, one long, supportive, and intended to comfort _him_ and not me — and clung to him for a good, long while before riding with him back to the Batcave. The League came even while we embraced only a short ways off, but if they noticed us, they let us be. 

I didn’t know what would become of Bruce regarding the League. I just hoped they’d extend a lighter hand. But if they didn’t, I figured I’d make their attempts at justice such a gargantuan pain in the ass they’d just give up. 

I was silent the entire drive to the Batcave, riding shotgun, thinking about what I had just seen, about Dick, about Tim. I had left Tim slumbering in his bed at the empty Drake place earlier, surreptitiously slithering like a bandit out of the bedroom window. His parents were gone, his dad giving some seminar or another in Austria, and his mother along for the ride. 

We got to his parents’ place, where he still lived up until he’d go back to college the following month, sometime after dark the night before. It was ten, maybe, but who knew or gave a crap what the hell time it was. We sat in the parlor for a while, not speaking, and not really watching _Pandora’s Box_ as it played on the flatscreen over the fireplace. 

Then, we started talking, a little stunted at first under the heavy, uncertain atmosphere, then easing into a comfortable rhythm after a while. 

I guess it was inevitable that we’d segue into talking about Dick, the big-ass Zitka or Colonel Hathi in the room, standing in the corner and stinking the whole place up. Just stupid stuff — the day I hid his gym bag, the time he brought Tim to Defcon in Vegas and invited him to contribute to his presentation, the time on patrol he and I got bored and broke into Wayne Tower after hours and divested the vending machines of every single one of their Snickers bars and Reese’s cups, and then the paralleled memories, the ones wherein he took on GA’s hulking jock bullies for us and ensured our high school experiences would be less than the living hells full of underwear strung up on flagpoles and attempted swirlies that they might have been otherwise. 

I guess it was every bit as inevitable then that Tim and I wound up crying like idiots, sitting by each other, hand-in-hand, until I finally got up, and raided the liquor cabinet. Fuck feeling like that amount of shit. 

I quaffed a decent amount of whiskey (half the bottle — it takes a _lot_ of booze to get me good and drunk.) Tim had four shots — and as a completely fastidious nerd-alert, one with a painstaking level of focus and devotion to mental pursuits that inspired pity and secondhand embarrassment, he wasn’t much of a drinker. Nope, not little Timmy. He never appreciated mind-altered states. 

Needless to say, he was more than a little drunk after those shots, and while I wasn’t necessarily an intoxicated sot, I was buzzed enough I wasn’t sure that driving or even operating a horse would have been a particularly wise decision, all too likely to result in scarred equine knees and a clunk on the head, a big, burly, barely drinking age Reuben Smith in _Black Beauty._ And with the walls knocked down under the hand of Jack Daniels, neither of us hid within mental facsimiles of Helm’s Deep. 

I came to the conclusion, midway through the night, that Tim was drunk enough that I may as well help him to his room, and the second I shut his door, I came to the next conclusion that he was officially in Drunkville. He pressed his body to mine, his lips flickering aggressively over my neck and jaw before finding my mouth. I’d barely mentally caught up to what the hell was going on when I felt his tongue, pulsing between my lips and teeth. All of it might have taken me so far aback I wound up in the Paleolithic era, but I was well aware that he was a sleeper by then, and at least _some_ part of me was prepared for such a display, especially under the influence. 

And I hadn’t been touched in… God, I couldn’t even _think_ how long, even before Talia, outside of the brotherly embraces that Dick loved to smother me with. And Tim, evidently, was every bit as touch-deprived as I was — going all in on every inch of contact he could get. He’d cuddled me on the couch in the den like the fucking cows were two seconds from coming home and he needed to absorb every moment before said cows trampled along and forced us to make room for Jesus. 

And I was just drunk enough that even though I knew it was Tim’s first, you know, _encounter_ with a member of the male persuasion, and that this was _way_ too fast even if it wasn’t, and that this sort of fast-tracking was dangerous, and that I was still playing mental catch-up with the entire thing, I didn’t stop it from happening. The whole night devolved from innocent cuddling and hand-holding to kissing and _heavily_ making out to a drunken double handy in short order. 

Honestly… after days of strain and worry and grief, it just felt _good_ to experience anything other than anticipation and heartache. Even if the whole thing just _reeked_ of a potentially ill-advised idea and I had arguably less _real_ experience in this arena than even he did (wasn’t my first time with a guy, but the other times for me weren’t exactly under favorable or romantic circumstances.) 

I wound up on top of him, both of our cocks clutched together in my grip, my hips working in time with my arm until he came first, spattering warm and stringy through my fingers, his cry more than sufficient to shove me _way_ the fuck over the edge less than a second later. We passed out after barely shifting out of that position, only moving enough for me to take some of my bulk off of his slighter form. 

I dreamed about the Pit. 

Only this time, Tim was drowning in my casket beside me, cleaving to me as though I were a life preserver, but I couldn’t help him any more than I could help myself. And I had dragged him inside with me — I had _pulled_ him in. 

I jerked awake sometime before dawn, covered in sweat and shaking, and as I lay assimilating wakefulness, I connected the dots of the previous evening’s confusing and possibly not-so-great decisions. Tim slept obliviously next to me, the black, unmoving sleep of the dead-drunk. I looked over at him, and felt like cutting my dick off. 

It wasn’t that I didn’t _feel_ things for Tim. The issue was more I had difficulty _integrating_ those feelings. That was one thing I shared with Bruce — except on my end, it wasn’t an inability to explicate how I felt. It was more that I didn’t care for _attachments_. That shit just got you in some huge-ass trouble on the streets. Out there, it was better to look out for yourself, the end. People could be helpful, sure, but putting trust in them was usually an awesome way to end up dead or worse. 

I’d _tried_ getting past that — I really had — but those hangups were only _more_ pronounced after my return. 

So when I _felt_ things for people, as in _real, dangerous_ things, these impressions were somewhat foreign territory, seas that I navigated without a compass or a crew. I had to sail through them by feel, entirely on instinct. And if you haven’t exactly honed those instincts, just keeping your little boat above water is a pretty notable victory. 

A part of me wondered if Tim _validated_ me in some way — if he filled the spaces inside me that coldly ached and slowly consumed my soul, and if so, were that actually an impermanent thing in the end? Did I care because he made me feel less hollow, because he just happened to be _there?_ A sort of romance by convenience and scratching an itch I’d long had, but hadn’t been able to alleviate on my own? Was I here entirely selfishly? 

I _really_ didn’t think so — I enjoyed myself to some pretty inordinate degrees when his was the company I kept, and I found myself _missing_ him and dwelling on him when he was away — but who the fuck knew. It had been a long, long time since I’d had a friend. A _good_ one, that didn’t come with any baggage on both sides. All the baggage I had with Tim was completely me-sided. 

And now for my next trick, the larger question, and the one that pressed at my mind a little more insistently than any of the multitudes of others — how long would it take for me to fuck it all up? 

Tim would undoubtedly be a little hungover, so I decided to be kind and boyfriendly and indulge his coffee habit before he woke up. I headed out to the Gotham Waterfront to complete my quest. Since we were now officially doing the BF/BF thing, I jokingly threw in flowers, and more seriously some comics I figured he’d like, too. Seemed like a desperate courtship ritual, but what the fuck ever. 

When I came back into the house, not bothering to ring the doorbell and kind of getting lost in that massive place without him guiding me through the circuitous halls to his room, I found him only just stirring. His face lit up like a supernova when I plunked the doppio shot-in-the-dark, flowers, and comics on the nightstand next to him. 

“Don’t have a heart attack with that thing,” I said, indicating the coffee. 

He just stood to kiss me — a _lot —_ by way of thanks. Then he laughed over the bouquet of flowers (dahlias, Gerber daisies, and roses. It seemed romantic enough.) 

I just kind of stood awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed from there. He looked happy, _genuinely_ happy, as he picked through the comics and started in on his coffee. He also appeared to be riding a bit of a post-coital high even through what had to be a pretty epic hangover. 

I exhaled, and decided to just get it over with and address the other elephant in the room (Dick was Zitka, this was Colonel Hathi? Yeah. That fit.) 

“So… how are you like, _feeling_ after last night?” I asked. I rubbed a bit at the back of my neck. “Umm… I mean, was it weird for you?” 

Tim considered as he sat down at his desk with his coffee and popped open his laptop. 

“Uh… I feel like it should have been?” he said, turning to me on his swivel chair. “But… it really _wasn’t,_ Jason _._ It just… It just felt _right —_ or at least to me it did. And yeah, maybe it was the booze speaking, but it actually felt pretty natural.” He paused, and smiled up at me. “Guess we’ll have to take another crack at it when we’re _not_ obliterated.” 

I smirked even as my heart bucked in my chest. Screwing while under the influence of Pits or booze was one thing. Fucking stone cold sober was quite another. 

“ _I_ wasn’t obliterated,” I informed him importantly. “ _You_ were obliterated. Lightweight.” 

He snorted. “I can’t say that I heard _you_ complaining.” 

Another problem cropped up at those words — Tim had definitely been drunker than I had been, and by the sallow skin and circles under his eyes, he was feeling it even now. 

Christ. Had I taken advantage of him — wittingly or unwittingly? 

Tim had _openly_ admired me — which was crap I frankly never understood. He couldn’t have given a damn about Robin when Dick was wearing the cape, even when my lofty predecessor had leagues of fans the world over (including Wally West, who was inspired to blow himself up and become Kid Flash, seeing Robin traipsing around with Batman), but Tim only took a truly active interest in the mask and persona when _I_ was behind them — and developed _quite_ the boyhood hero worship and what we now knew was a celebrity crush on me. _Me._ Even when standing in the looming shadows cast by the great and charming Nightwing and the all-powerful Batman, Tim was a fucking _Robin_ fanboy. He apparently wanted desperately to meet me all the way up until I died. Then, when he hacked into the Batcave’s systems (ah, I’d have paid good money to watch Dick piss his little unitard over that, since he played a big part in their construction) and discovered my civilian identity, he decided he only liked Robin even more, given he thought I was pretty damn cool after the tiny handful of times we’d crossed paths at society events and GA. 

_That_ was new. Dick _drew_ people to him. I guessed it was the showman in him — he had stage presence everywhere he went. I was a caustic street kid — charming only to a highly specific niche demographic, whereas Dick just naturally had mass appeal. One of the things I hearkened to early on when I tried very hard to really, truly hate my big brother (usually failing. It was infuriatingly hard to hate him.) 

But there was little Timmy, the proverbial president of my fanclub. It wasn’t that Tim didn’t admire Dick — he did — but not with the avid _fascination_ that he did me. 

And _then_ I started to wonder if he was totally blinded by that old, inexplicable celebrity crush of his, glossing over what could be some serious problems and red flags and issues, and sticking me up on some sky-high pedestal in the same neighborhood as the Tower of Babel. 

_Fucking_ relationship _shit,_ I thought irritably, my gently aching head starting to swim. _Dick, wake the fuck up. I need you to hold my hand and walk me through this like a small child. You’re never there when I need you!_

Conversations that would _need_ to be had — but Tim and I both kind of had shit to do, and he didn’t seem all that nonplussed, anyway. He was actually more covered in the afterglow. I felt that, too — but all the fears kind of ruined what should have been a pleasant thing for me. 

We ended up spending the day working, which was kind of a relief. For one, it spared me having to make heads and tails of my appallingly upturned thoughts and feelings for a while, and for another, while bellyaching over Dick, hugging each other and waiting for the phone to ring — _he’s dead —_ might have seemed like the natural and expected thing to do, that was never my style. It was time to get to _work._ I wasn’t about to cry over my brother’s tragically discarded cape when I could get some useful shit done, and neither was my partner-in-not-crime (and bed. _Christ.)_

Tim, for his part, seemed to forget I was even alive when he remoted from his laptop to work with Barbara, both of them going Don Quixote and Sancho Panza and tilting full-on at Luthor’s windmills, and I doing much the same, going all in on my own search for the Joker, ears and eyes kept way out, sources on call, ready to notify me in an instant if there was even a whiff of the clown, anywhere on the globe. 

And that night, after a full day’s work, the booze from the night before and the strain of the days prior caught up to us — we were both totally bushed. The discomforts and fatigue didn’t stop us fooling around for a bit, though, and _sober_ this time. _(Fuck!)_

I admittedly had a feeling on some level since waking up that morning that now we were started, we’d only keep barreling forward — sex, I’d learned, is like that, especially when there’s an element of newness to it and you haven’t been touched in so long a handshake from a stranger makes you weep with joy. It could, all too often, be like a _drug._ Something prescription. It could help you, but it could hurt you, too. And I’d never had what I’d call a healthy relationship with it. Not to mention after the strange encounters with Talia, and earlier, the years I spent as a kid engaged in a less than stellar partnership with sexual relations to ensure I’d eat at the end of the day, I had no idea what my own coexistence with sex would ever be, other than fast-tracked and confused. 

It wasn’t that I didn’t _like_ it, or at least, that I didn’t like the _concept_ of sex — but in my adulthood, I preferred it on my terms, which usually meant lotion and a towel, or a warm, cozy shower. 

But as Tim and I got the ball rolling in his room after that day of working so comfortably side by side, it was hard to feel that _any_ of it was something other than completely natural. Orgasms were generally a little odd for me, usually governed by my own hand and following my own parameters. The idea of opening up to someone, letting them _take_ that control from me, was totally anathema. 

But when Tim touched me, I found I didn’t mind — and felt that something in me, something _deep,_ was assuaged after years of burning and discomfort. I experienced a sudden sense of being _needy,_ but it was in a way that was every bit as warming as it was frightening, a way that elicited being _soothed._ And for whatever reason, I didn’t mind Tim knowing that I felt that same neediness any more than I minded him touching me. 

Talia had never blown me, never jerked me off, didn’t even really properly _kiss_ me — she’d just hopped aboard as though she had every right to do so and gone for a ride until I busted inside her, each time a repeat of the last, all of them with a feeling of being devoured alive, piece by piece, a flower with its petals torn off one at a time. 

Tim was different. Doing this _sober_ was different. It was slow, deliberate, foreignly sensual, downright tender. He got me stripped gradually, slowly, between kisses, and then took me in one hand with long fingers, stroking, his lips soft on my neck, his ankle locked over mine. His touch was gentle, almost _nurturing._

“Is this okay?” he asked more than once. The first time, I just made a humiliating noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and the next, I could barely gasp affirmatives. I blew it in probably two minutes at max. 

His turn. 

After an orgasm I’d _ensured_ was nothing shy of completely mindblowing (he screamed so loud he almost hurt my ears and I damn near laughed my ass off with his cock in my throat), Tim dropped all the way off the map, sleeping deeply. 

And then, as I lay trying to comprehend what had just transpired, my most reliable source, Scarlet, pinged me with the Joker’s location. 

Seeing her text, the beast inside me woke the hell up, rearing its bulky shoulders, its rheumy eyes rolling in its skull and glowing like red lightning, its roar vibrating through my form. 

The motherfucker was at Woodland Cemetery — _on top of Dick’s parents’ graves._

I hauled my naked ass out of bed, yanked my clothes on in two swipes, and moved to just leap out of the window and into the night. I was fully prepared to sprint to Woodland Cemetery, making only the briefest pit stop at my safe house to suit up, but I stalled momentarily as I passed the bed. 

I realized that, having a boyfriend — a _real_ boyfriend, not merely a bedmate or a beau — I was now beholden and _obligated_ to someone. I couldn’t just up and go anymore. I owed _explanations_ now. Another thing Dick kindly made me aware of, sometime after I got back, during one of our manifold tense moments during which he wrapped his head around my _night_ job. 

“You have friends,” he’d snapped. “You have family. You have people who _care_ about you. You’re not _alone_ anymore. You don’t just roll back in and bow back out. That’s not fair to us, Jason. It’s not fair _at all.”_

I’d been pissed, but as I stared at Tim’s still, quiet form, its slim, graceful shape kissed by the moonlight that streamed through the window, for the barest moment, I knew that I not only owed him explanations, he _deserved_ them — just as Dick always deserved the truth from me. 

Aw, hell. 

I left him a longhand note, a short one, that stated I’d be back soon and not to worry. I drew a couple of stupid stick figure cartoons on it. Then I bent, and left a kiss on his dark hair before I ducked out into the night to find the Joker. It was just after that I witnessed Batman’s version of restitution in the cemetery. 

Tim had awakened, and learned what happened before morning, when I popped back in through the window, full of contrition and bearing coffee as a means of apology (unnecessary apologies, it turned out, minus making him worry when I didn’t answer my phone a good portion of the night.) As Tim drank the coffee I gave him, he asked after Bruce and the status of the Joker, and I brought him up to speed. I decided not to touch on the sober handy and blow job from the night before — my new boyfriend (a real one, my God!) seemed happy to lead the way, in any case, and I decided I was happy to let him for then. 

The League forcibly put Bruce on leave, and Alfred condemned him to rest within the manor (the success of that condemnation remained to be seen, as well as whether Bruce would honor the terms of his leave.) The Joker was remanded to Arkham’s ICU. It was all too likely he’d wind up in a persistent vegetative state, or drooling and drinking his food out of a straw — and that was the best case scenario. The worst case scenario, and the one that seemed more likely by all available evidence, was that he was every bit as much for the Black Rabbit of Inle as Dick was. 

With this somber knowledge, Tim quietly returned to work with Barbara at his perch at his desk, and I lay down to sleep on his bed, completely drained after the horrible night prior. I was _so_ glad that Carol at the library had given me “as much time off as I needed.” I’d have to buy her a fruits basket or something. There also wasn’t imminent danger of being happened upon — Tim’s parents weren’t due back in the States until the week after, although he assured me they wouldn’t care if they caught me sleeping anywhere in their house, so long as I was clean. 

“They probably wouldn’t even notice, Jason,” Tim said, and I didn’t miss the quiet undercurrent of bitterness in his voice. 

It dawned on me that of course they wouldn’t. Tim’s parents were the one percenters that _worked_ for everything they had, that fought tooth and nail to hold onto it, and that meant they always had shit to do. _Big_ shit. They just plain didn’t have time for their lonely teenaged son. Sure, they had called to check in after hearing about the _horror that befell Dick Grayson!_ , to their knowledge a close friend of their boy and the son of a common business affiliate and fellow Gotham socialite, but they didn't shorten their trip for Tim, who arguably needed them home. 

It was no wonder that Tim, with his restless mind, bored genius, and lonely soul, found his way into the hitherto impenetrable Batcave systems, and discovered the family secrets. And it was even less a wonder that he then latched powerfully onto them, finding something of a kindred spirit in Bruce, a loving, attentive big brother in Dick, a noble, nurturing grandfather in Alfred. Friends — _real_ friends, Loser’s Club level friends — in the team. 

And now, a lover in me. 

I warmed as I watched him lean over his laptop, burrowing into work, settling comfortably into his own niche, somehow like the parents that neglected him, but different, too. 

_Senpai has noticed you, Hokai,_ I thought, half-smiling a bit. 

Then, I turned to my side, focusing on the pattern in the fancy throw rug that covered the antique wooden floor until it blurred and I fell asleep, a sleep troubled by nightmares and memories. 

I knew that Bruce _felt_ things. It wasn’t like I was unaware of the fact that he had emotions, that he wasn’t made of stone, for all he was often a powerful giant of ice, some cold world guard out of Butcher’s Arctis Tor. But he didn’t showcase his feelings, never advertised his emotions in the way that Dick habitually did, and I had since stopped expecting him to, or trying to force emotive response from him in my more heated moments. I knew, from Dick and Alfred, that he had emoted _very seriously_ the night I died. 

And the night before, after what happened in the cemetery… oh, Bruce _broadcasted_ those emotions that he kept so deeply buried, as though he suddenly excavated them like an archaeologist who unearthed an eldritch curse, giving way under a cry that had to have pent up within him for _years._

Even as he made preparations to confront Sportsmaster and Luthor, snapping orders at Alfred and me, he cried. He didn’t bawl, keen, or sob — but he cried. 

He cried because of Dick, because of me, because of his parents, because of the people he’d failed to save in between. He even cried over fucking Wally West. He cried over Artemis and what happened to her, what was nearly done to baby Mary — something that perturbed him on an intrinsic level more than even _he_ realized. 

But he cried the hardest over what he’d done to the Joker, the sense that there was no justice, no resolution — and the feeling that everything that happened around him was his fault, all tracing back to his failure and inertia, and his powerlessness as a child. 

“This will only carry over into Luthor,” Bruce growled through his unstopping tears. “And to Sportsmaster. It won’t _matter._ None of it will fix Dick, none of it will save him —” 

He ran some scripts on his favored computer, and drew a hand across his wet eyes. 

“It won’t undo what happened to him. It won’t undo it anymore than crippling the Joker undid what happened to you. Check in with Lena Luthor regarding Lex’s whereabouts — he’s _on vacation_ somewhere,” he ordered me, and I scrambled to obey, unusually pliant under his aberrant display, even though it was after midnight and Lena, naturally, didn’t answer any of the phone numbers we had on file for her. I sent her an email instead. 

Alfred finally intervened when Bruce startled the shit out of me as I composed the email, nearly shattering the keyboard after a command randomly faulted, as he slammed his fist into the stand. 

“Master Bruce, you are of no use to anyone in this state, least of all to Master Dick,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. He took Bruce’s arm when he moved to walk away from Alfred. “Come, you _must_ rest, sir. And you must be looked after — your hands need to be iced, you need fluids, you need NSAIDs, and most of all, you need _rest_. You may continue in your mission when you’ve properly refreshed yourself. Imagine if Master Dick could see you now —” 

Bruce shook him off, and I decided this was a two-man job. I moved to help. 

As we forcibly brought him back into the manor from the cave, I yammered a little — responding to Bruce’s display, trying in my ungraceful way to comfort and reason with him. 

“You know when I decided that one time to go after the Riddler when my ankle was broken?” I said. “And you dragged my ass back in and said I absolutely _had_ to stay in and rest, even going so far as to threaten to break my other ankle to ensure I stayed put? This — _this_ is the same deal, Bruce. You need to step away for a while. You just broke the fuck out of that poor keyboard — and what did it ever do to you? What’s it that Dick always says… Oh, yeah. It’s chocolate milk and blankie time! I mean, do _I_ need to break both your legs or some shit?” 

Our paces eased as Bruce quit resisting us. 

“You could try,” Bruce said, and all three of us paused. A somber smile was shared. 

“That’s better, Master Bruce,” said Alfred. “Come now.” 

Alfred and I got Bruce tended to, leaving him eventually in his room. After his door closed, Alfred and I turned on the 24/7 news that streamed from Gotham’s webpage, and made tea. We didn’t speak much, but didn’t really need to as we shared silent rapport and understanding. 

When I stood to leave, I hugged Alfred goodbye and told him to please remember to look after himself in this, too. 

“I assure you I will,” Alfred said, then smiled wanly. “At least until Master Bruce wakes up.” 

I smiled a little in response. “Do you ever sleep?” 

“A question I might also ask you,” Alfred returned. “You look exhausted, Master Jason. You ought to rest up, as well. You know you are always welcome to stay here.” 

“Can’t leave Tim hanging,” I said, and realized I’d just more than firmed up my relationship status as I did. 

_Shit._

Alfred’s smile widened. “Indeed you cannot. Best run along then, Master Jason.” 

We hugged again, this one going on longer than the first. 

“If I may, sir, and if it helps at all… I believe, with all my being, that Master Dick will be all right in the end,” said Alfred suddenly. “He’s young — and a fighter at that.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

“I don’t know, Alfred,” I said solemnly. “It just doesn’t look good.” 

“Give it time,” he told me, his voice firm and sure, even through its fatigued, reedy quality. “And have faith. We all ought to follow Miss Artemis’ example.” He paused. “And… Master Dick _needs_ that just now. As does Master Bruce. And all the rest.” 

More quiet passed as I ruminated. 

Finally, I nodded. “Okay.” 

He squeezed my wrist, and I headed out of the manor. 

I made my way back to Tim’s place, going the longer route, needing time to think and clear my head. 

I stopped by the Gotham waterfront, and sat on an empty bench for a while, now and then leaking tears of my own, depending on where my thoughts landed. 

I knew, in my blood and bones, what I needed to do. 

I could do what others couldn’t — that much was no secret. It was always my role. I was endlessly the one this sort of thing — the dense thing, the brobdingnagian thing, the incomprehensible thing — fell to. 

The others adhered to law and order. Truth and justice. I adhered to the _victims._ To the survivors. 

And maybe, in their way, the others were unspokenly grateful to me for performing the ugly, visceral tasks that they could not. It wasn’t that I wanted them to be, that I felt owed gratitude. If they _were_ thankful, I didn’t need them to tell me so. 

But I could do those things, looking at them differently than the others did, and my role and place in this world roosted that night. 

I ruminated on that familiar thought process with its new and added facets all the following day, dwelling on it in my fitful sleep as I tossed like a tempest atop Tim’s bed, before the evening fell and we both got the message that Dick had gone into multiple systems failure — and to _be ready for it._

Tim and I just sat in a loaded, breathless silence, waiting, baited, our hands clutching one another’s to the point of straining under white, stretched flesh. 

I about leapt ten feet out of my skin when Tim’s phone finally buzzed after who the fuck _knew_ how long, followed by mine a second later. 

_Pulled through,_ it read, this one from Babs. _He’s okay for now._

We both exhaled, and Tim leaned against my shoulder. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

I nodded. 

I felt sick. A part of me wavered. The waiting, the certainty and then the uncertainty, the limbo purgatory we were in as we hung around cooling our heels — it had to be worse than clear-cut grief. 

For one terrible, shameful second, I wondered if I’d be relieved if Dick died. 

I shook myself, and texted Artemis. 

_How you holding up, Mama Bear?_

She texted back shortly after, a series of texts that came in spurts. 

_Holding up. At home. My mom and Kaldur are here._

_Figures right after I leave the hospital, this would happen._

_I didn’t want to leave him. I should have been there._

My heart went dead weight and declined inside my chest as I read that last text. 

No. No, I wouldn’t be relieved if Dick died. _Hell_ no. 

_He’s okay, Artemis,_ I sent. _He’s okay. You are, too. Get some rest. Gotta keep looking after Grayson Player Two and yourself._

_I will,_ I received. _Thanks, Jay. <3_

Tim had fallen asleep on his belly across his unmade bed when I left that night, the night I found myself at Arkham, hearkening to the pages of _Blindness_ as I crossed the grounds. 

I didn’t say goodbye, didn’t leave any scrawled messages. This time, I stole away, quietly, under the radar. 

I wondered how Tim would respond to what I was about to do — would he turn me away? Turn me in? Or would I turn myself away from him, spare him the pain of wrangling the beast that rested in me, ready to rise with a snap of the jaw at any moment? Could I face a life wherein Tim Drake shunned me? I could handle that sort of thing from everyone, _anyone_ else — but could I withstand it from Tim? 

I gritted my teeth, my resolve renewing itself. 

I knew, in my heart, that I loved Tim — oh, and there, _there_ it was, my friends — but this was something that I _needed_ to do. And I’d put it off for far too long. It was July, but _today the yellow leaves go queer._

This was not for Bruce. It never was. It never would be. 

I had so powerfully wanted Bruce to prove he loved me by _killing_ the Joker for me, avenging me — and I knew now that was neither right nor meet. Bruce loved me. I knew he did. I no longer needed him to prove it. 

This was something that _I_ needed to do. 

And if it was kismet, predestiny, or if I believed in a higher power — be that Yahweh, Allah, Zeus, the Lord of Light, fucking Maturin the Turtle — or if it was just plain _circumstances,_ I knew that the Joker’s end was _always_ determined to be at my hands. 

It was my burden, my cross, my duty. It was always meant to be. 

I entered the building through a backdoor, the security code an ill-gotten gain by way of one of Dick’s hacking tools. I’d only use his that night — no one else’s. It only seemed right. 

I quietly made my way through the halls, avoiding staff, and located the room I sought. 

I waited for my opportunity, and when it presented itself, I took it without hesitation, quickly stepping across the tiled hall and into the room that held the Joker. 

Closing the door, sliding back the curtained partition, and finding the bed upon which he rested, pricked full of IVs, intubated, with all his limbs in splints, truly an eerie, Neverwhere double image of Dick, I paused as the accustomed loathing, terror, and anger pulsed through my body. Even unrecognizable, emasculated, and lying halfway across Death’s threshold, he instilled this horrific mix of unsettled, sickened emotions in me. 

I only had a moment, and I needed to make a quick getaway once the deed was done. I couldn’t dawdle. There was no time for unspoken communion, for soul-searching. 

I would, of course, have loved to engage in a powerful beat-down, to have joined Bruce in a tag teamed decimation of this monster, to have fired soliloquies at him even as I landed strike after strike on his weaselly form with a crowbar — I was _big_ now, no longer the small, half-grown boy that the Joker had toyed with, and could damn well do all of the above — but such things were not for me to own. 

This, although it carried with it a whisper and not a shout, was to be mine. 

I took the sawed off shotgun, the same one that had exploded through Dick’s midsection and taken all but his life with it, and pressed it to the Joker’s forehead. The gun was silenced, but the bark of the shot would still be loud, and draw the staff. Not that the alerts of the machines as they read death from their charge wouldn’t. I laid my finger on the trigger, the butt pressed to my shoulder. 

“So let us melt, and make no noise,” I mouthed, not making even a breath of sound. John Donne. A means of bitter farewell. 

I pulled the trigger. 

The gun rocked against my shoulder as the muzzle shouted its report. 

And the face of all of my nightmares melted, the forehead now a bloody, gaping mass. Blood, brain matter, and skull fragments decorated my clothing, my front spattered like a watercolor painting and arms soaked in burgundy dye. The bed, floor, and walls were equally spackled. 

I retracted the weapon, gazing, very briefly, at what remained of the Joker. 

He was dead. The machines declared as much in a loud, even hum. 

In less than a second’s span, he was gone. Finally, finally gone. It was done. 

This much, at least, was over. 

It was over. 

_What he could bear in the waking world he could not by night and he sat awake for fear the dream would return,_ I thought as I turned to the door, and then I realized that I no longer had to fear my own dream’s return. It bore no weight, not anymore. Even if it continued to haunt my sleep, it would no longer hold power in my wakefulness. 

And neither would it in the wakefulness of _so_ many others. My father, my brother among them. 

I released one breath. People would come, now that the machines coded. Precious seconds were all I had to make a clean escape. 

I ducked quietly out of the room, out of the hall, and out of the building, rushing across the grounds, remaining unseen as I moved. I was quick and quiet, even with my considerable size. 

“There’s a stake in your fat black heart,” I murmured into the darkness as I left Arkham property, a shadow within a shadow, traveling through the woods, “And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always _knew_ it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” 

I sighed into the darkness, satisfied with that line of poetry. I paused when I came to the shoreline outside of the line of trees, and looked up at the moon, seeing it with a new sort of clarity where it loomed overhead, once in awhile latticed behind strings of clouds. 

I released a long, slow breath into the muggy air, found the boat I’d left hidden by the treeline, and made my way back to the mainland, avoiding the bridge. 

I returned the gun to the BPD, not bothering to clean it. Ballistics would trace it back, either way, and I hadn’t been detected on my ways in and out of the building — I’d _ensured_ as much. And if there was anything I’d learned from Batman, Talia, _all_ of my mentors, it was how to effectively cover my tracks. Even Luthor’s slippery ass would have been proud. 

All of my senses were alert, attuned, and on edge as I rode back to Gotham, the wind kicking my blood-spattered coat up around me. It was hot and muggy, not the night for a coat, but I barely felt the misery of the equatorial night as I entered Gotham by the back and side roads, each and every nerve humming and awake. 

I ditched the ruined clothes in the safe house I kept. I’d come back the following day and deal with them. 

I looked down at my naked body, the thick legs and broad trunk that reached into wide shoulders, and sighed. How many times had I reimagined how I died — taken the memory, and twisted it into one in which I was _this_ size, and the fight I gave the Joker that night turned the tables, ending with _me_ beating him to a senseless, bloody pulp? 

Those fantasies had come to pass, whispering, not shouting. 

I was, to my own surprise, _thankful_ for the whisper. The quiet. It had been quick and painless, with a quality of mercy — and not for the clown. For myself. 


	31. 7-27-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN, Y'ALL!!
> 
> My favorite holiday, I HAVE to post. :D Can I just take a second to scream over the fact that I SAW A WEE RED HOOD OUT TRICK-OR-TREATING AND IT WAS THE CUTEST AND BEST COSTUME OF THE NIGHT??? <3
> 
> All my love and thanks to my dearest Zoeleo for her (as always) magnificent beta work! <3 ^_^ Equally, big shout-out and thanks to Mangaluva for helping me to hone parts of this into something infinitely better. :D <3 You guys are THE BEST. <3
> 
> Enjoy, all... happy reading!
> 
> (My hubby totally coined the term Preggo waffles, although we both suspect we aren't the first to have done so, lol.)
> 
> Much love! ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF

_July 27, 2019_

_Artemis_

Like most nights, I lay on my side, staring at the empty space in the bed, a space that seemed to go on for an infinite stretch of patchwork blending into a colorless nothingness, a blank expanse with no bounds. 

Clutched in my arms like a teddy was the oversized, ridiculously cozy throw pillow that Dick and I both favored and fought endlessly for the rights to. Its heft curved softly around my oblong belly, cushioning Mary’s movements as she went about whatever it was she was up to, training for birth or some such thing. These regimented periods of activity commonly made me joke that she was getting in shape for the birthing experience. _It’s the eye of the Tiger, Mary,_ Dick said in response. 

I pressed my nose into the pillow, inhaling deeply and slowly. It still _smelled_ like Dick, the scent of his cologne (sorry, _composition oil)_ infused into it after so many years of his lying curled around it, much as I was. 

I no longer slept at night because every time I dropped off, my subconscious either relentlessly hurled me straight into grotesque, garish Halloween attractions full of tiled halls that went on for spaces immeasurable, each of them branching into more endless corridors, all of them haunted by blood-spattered clowns that leapt terrifyingly from the corners. Harley Quinn, her mallet raised and knife brandished, was _always_ hot on my heels — heels that slipped and couldn’t find purchase on the slick floor. In those dreams, I gripped my baby in a precarious hold, her weight dangling treacherously in my arms as I raced to locate Dick, who would _fix_ all of this. But I was never able to find him, knowing innately that he was at the end of one of those infinite corridors, if I could just _reach_ the end before Harley caught me — however, those halls had no end. 

Or, on the flip, my dreams put on elaborate, aggravatingly happy plays, each and every one of them starring Dick, all of them a Shakespeare’s comedy, not a one of them ending poorly. 

Somehow, these inexplicably pleasant dreams after the waking nightmares my days had become were _worse_ than the terrors were. They were flat-out _cruel_ — like sunshine at a funeral. 

The kicker, what made them so damn _mean,_ was the fact that after wandering these happy dreamscapes, abstract, colorful, geometric versions of the real world, with an especially vibrant Dick wandering along beside me within their kaleidoscopic backdrops, I’d wake up, and have a brief, clinging series of moments during which my comprehension determined everything to be fine, everything to be normal. This was followed immediately by the sense that something — and something big, something serious — was wrong ( _but what was it?_ ), and then, as the threads of sleep at last untied themselves and released me into wakefulness, I’d turn over, see the empty space in bed next to me, the space that went on for infinity, and _remember._ Oh, I’d remember. 

Then the days would be spent waiting for news, waiting to hear that Dick was healing, waiting to hear that the claws of the coma that jealously held him were retracting, that he had opened his eyes. I was supposed to be on bed rest until I labored on my own time (well, on my own time providing that Grayson Player Two entered the game prior to the forty-two week mark), so “it wasn’t recommended” by the asshole quacks that I go and visit him — a gross injustice that _infuriated_ me. 

Each time my phone buzzed or rang, I’d experience a pulsing feeling of anticipation — nervousness, excitement, hope, and despair all at once, rattling through my body like a part that had shaken loose and shuffled about inside me. When the notifications turned out to be unrelated to news regarding Dick, the waiting would recommence in the wake of whatever the message happened to be — well wishes and expressions of support, usually. I responded to these via blanket social media posts, thanking everyone for their love and kindness. It had gotten to be a lot to keep up with on an individual basis. 

At the hour of four in the morning when I lay in my otherwise empty bed, knowing that sleep wasn’t coming, I felt an itch for a cup of coffee. Screw it, I figured. Four was a less unholy hour to rise at than three, anyway. I ignored the minor tightening in my belly as it gently contracted (a common thing by then, and that morning I’d been feeling them since three), and slid out from under the sheet. 

Brucely greeted me where he lay at the foot of the bed, and I squatted to give him a rub down for a few moments. I finished that off with a hug about his shoulders. It was nice to have my dog back. 

My mother had asked if I wanted to stay with her for a while, which I’ll freely admit tempted me. I felt some trepidation at going home from the hospital, uncertain of how I would respond to the home that I shared with my partner, knowing that his glaring absence would only be more powerfully felt and rendered _real_ , less transitory, less impermanent, surrounded by the things that he’d touched. 

Somehow, though, avoiding Dick’s things, his affects, the spaces he’d filled, seemed like a brazen act of irrevocably opening up to and even accepting the idea that he wasn’t coming back. Why stay away from reminders of him if he wasn’t dead? 

And he wasn’t dead. Damn it, _he wasn’t dead_. 

I _had_ to hold out hope for him — and avoiding our home seemed like a pretty surefire way to end it all before it even began. 

I asked instead if my mother wanted to stay at my house in the guest room on the main floor. She happily accepted, and brought Brucely with her. I loved having my mother and dog back at home with me, although I worried over how Brucely and Peach would react to each other. 

Brucely, of course, imprinted on the cat immediately, rushing to her with a wagging tail and enormous interest, while Peach arched and puffed and hissed and looked at me with an air of royal fury, betrayal, and disappointment before disappearing under the couch for a day or two. However, when she opted to reappear, her body language nothing shy of imperious as she padded importantly over to her food dish that Brucely had obediently left untouched after my loud remonstrations at him, she deigned to accept the dog into her space. I couldn’t help smiling at the display. 

Zatanna, as my birthing partner, stayed at the house too, sleeping in the twin bed Dick and I had set up in Mary’s room for especially rough nights. However, even on leave from the League until the baby showed up, she worked long into the night as a performing magician. She used the Zetas to make her way back to the house, and remained on call just in case. 

I’d reluctantly accepted that Dick wouldn’t see Mary’s birth, even if he woke up beforehand, and had decided on Zatanna, the baby’s godmother, as my birthing partner in his stead. I had momentarily considered Jade, but decided against it, even if she _was_ my sister and had been through the trials of birthing an infant before. Her bedside manner was that of a freaking sledgehammer — much as I loved Jade, I’d rather have the soothing presence of my best friend there. 

I was quiet as I passed the baby’s room, where Zatanna slept, her shape visible through the cracked door. I’d heard her come in not too long before I’d gotten out of bed myself. Brucely followed. 

I found Peach in the foyer as I headed downstairs and sighed as the familiar weight of Dick’s absence settled cumbrously on me. She rested in the loaf position by the front door with a ponderous patience — something she frequently could be counted on to do as she waited for Dick to come home any time he’d be out of the house for an extended period. 

I knelt beside where she waited, and ran a hand over her fur. 

“Nice to know I’m not the only one who hasn’t thrown in the towel,” I murmured to her, rubbing her chin. “He’ll be back, Peach. Just watch. He does this all the time. He’s like the injury troll. I bet he’ll even have all his faculties in gear and more mobility than the doctors think. That’s just his MO.” 

_Cripes, I’m talking out loud in full-blown conversations to my pets,_ I thought incredulously, shaking my head with a self-aware sort of embarrassment. _Dick, you’d just damn well better wake up and come home soon, or I’ll be talking to the air or imaginary friends in short order._

Even with my mom and Zatanna there, and the continued inflow of welcome visitors (teammates, family, and friends, including Marjorie and Dick’s circus fam, mainly), there was a sense of emptiness, of unnatural quiet in the house, with Dick gone. I wondered if I should cast bids with my friends over how long it would take for my bologna to slide off my Wonder Bread. 

When I got to the kitchen, I let Brucely out into the fenced backyard, and settled into the familiar, mundane rhythm of making coffee. I leaned against the counter, watching the dark liquid as it dribbled into the decanter, my mind a thousand miles away even when the base of my abdomen clinched. 

I wondered what my father was doing at that moment, and I felt my teeth involuntarily clench. 

_Don’t think about that right now,_ I ordered myself. _Don’t dwell on it. What has Dinah tried to hammer into your skull so many times? You can’t do anything about it — not yet. Worry about it when you can_ do _something about it._

But I couldn’t thrust thoughts of Sportsmaster from my mind, imaginings of him settled triumphantly inside his cell, resting smugly on his victory, his head only in its proper position just because it was jammed that far up his ass. 

I didn’t know the specifics of how he’d gotten out of Belle Reve, or gotten his slippery ass back in, and I frankly didn’t care about the details. With Luthor behind it, I was sure setting up the ruse that he’d never even left the joint and then getting out and back in was child’s play — easy-peasy, Japanesey, as the not-so-PC saying goes. And with pesky Nightwing/Dick Grayson now in an unspeaking coma and looking like ripe fodder for the Reaper’s sickle (or like a slobbering, vacant vegetable if his eyes ever popped open — aka, nothing to see here, folks, just a job of removing a threat to Luthor’s regime-in-building well done, move along), Sportsmaster was all too likely to be released from jail. Mr. Secretary General’s way of saying ‘hey thanks buddy,’ even if the end result was messy by his usual pristine standards. I had no idea how the knowledge of Dick’s civilian identity had wound up an ill-gotten gain in the hands of all the wrong people — _person,_ really, and that person being none other than my father — but that it had was scary on levels incontemplatable. 

My hands started to shake. 

The Joker, although his involvement sickened and _angered_ me, seemed unimportant, trivial, an afterthought. Again, all the explosive, bestial rage I felt at the knowledge that he took part in Dick’s attack was directed singularly at my father. _Sportsmaster_ was the soulless, desiccated monster that turned to the Joker to get even with Dick for publicly humiliating him — about that, there was absolutely no question. Luthor would never have taken up with such a wild card for so delicate an operation. 

And the Joker was dealt with, anyway. Someone (my money was on Jason) had gone into Arkham and busted a cap in the clown’s bashed-in head before he could bite it of his extensive (and frankly totally fucking deserved) injuries. 

I didn’t… _feel_ much, hearing about that, minus a tired, empty deliverance and sense of long-awaited, bitter relief. It spared Bruce the guilt of his death, spared all of us the anxiety of his presence, spared Dick the injustice of sharing oxygen with that subhuman piece of shit. It was the only fair ending for what the Joker had done. A source of pain alleviated. I didn’t feel _good,_ necessarily — but I wasn’t what I’d call sorry to hear the news, either. 

I couldn’t even worry overmuch about Luthor, doubtless the mastermind behind this whole mess. With or without grand, venerated Mr. Secretary General, Sportsmaster would have come after Dick eventually — be that from the interior of Belle Reve or on the outside, it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have sat on having half his teeth knocked out and his collarbone broken and ribs dislocated by some punk kid — never. He’d make Dick _answer_ for it in some way, at some time, be that months, years, even decades after the fact. His pride was just that great, his apprized _rep_ that important to him. 

And it sure as _shit_ wasn’t Luthor’s idea to sell Mary and me to Harleen Quinzel. My existence was barely even a blip on Luthor’s radar. He never even seemed all that chuffed that I was around, even when Tigress happened to go elbows deep in the Light’s ass. No, the move of farming my baby out to that psycho was _all_ Sportsmaster — and belonged to no one else. 

My teeth clenched. My heart hammered. A shiver wracked my body, starting at my spine, finishing at my head and feet. My stomach cinched into another contraction, stronger this time. I closed my eyes, tuning into and focusing on the comforting sounds of the coffee maker as it whistled and sang, whispering sweet nothings to me in the silence of the kitchen. I white-knuckled the beveling of the counter, waiting out the clamping in my belly. The familiar hum of the machine drowned out the menacing _hooomm_ of Harley’s mallet as the recollection of that terrible thing coming down hard at my head flashed through my mind. 

_You’re home,_ I whispered inwardly to myself, inhaling, exhaling, _you’re home, you’re not at Old North. Harley’s gone, she’s dead, she won’t be back to try taking Mary ever again. You’re okay, the baby’s okay. You’re_ home. _It’s all right._

I opened my eyes, and sighed. 

Harleen’s death perturbed me on countless levels — and plenty of them were ones I would never have expected. Somehow, it _hurt_ me somewhere so deep inside that it threatened to unspool me slowly over a period of years, a degenerative disease that nothing would treat. 

There was some agency in what she did, I knew as much damn well — she continually returned to the Joker, the man who demeaned and dehumanized and marginalized her — but how much was there, really? She was a fucking _Disneyland_ of psychological disorders and problems and baggage, prime trim for an inhuman master manipulator like the Joker. And her sorrow, her desperation, her _longing_ — I felt it, all of it, as she outpoured to me, repulsively caressing my belly in that bathtub at Old North. Her emotions were _real —_ and they’d all flowered and thrived inside her unchecked, unfurling through her mind and body until they overtook her like a grotesque overgrowth of so many poisonous plants. 

Why had no one _helped_ her? Why was that terrible cycle permitted to go on? I knew that Harleen _chose_ her path, opted to remain with the beast that brutalized her, but couldn’t someone have _tried_ talking her away from him? 

But… maybe they did, I thought darkly as the coffee completed its cycle, and my abdominals unwound themselves. Maybe they did, and my ludicrous sorrowing over her horrific misfortunes was entirely misplaced. That bitch intended to cut my throat and tear my baby from me, after all. Why the hell did I feel _sorry_ for her, why was there so much _sadness_ over her (deserved) demise? Why wasn’t I more thankful to Jade for tossing her murdering psycho ass out that window — an action she performed out of _love_ for me? Not that I wasn’t thankful to my sister for removing one of the nightmares that would have plagued my every step if left unhindered, but why wasn’t I _more_ so? 

_Stockholm Syndrome,_ I told myself derisively. _Now you’ve got that to add to your daddy issues and your dedicated denial of reality and your hero/savior complex. You’re a fucking idiot, Artemis Crock._

Maybe it was time to talk to Dinah (oh, the horror!) I mock-shuddered, and giggled into the quiet. 

_Yep, there goes your bologna,_ I thought, and cackled aloud. 

My stomach tightened again, and I bent over the counter, slowly breathing until the muscles loosened themselves. My belly soothed for the time being, I reached for a mug in the cabinet over the coffeemaker. As I filled the cup with the dark brew, the same stuff that had so put me off early on in my pregnancy and now acted as something of a panacea, words poured in time through my mind like a litany. 

_Wake up,_ I thought, the phrase not directed at myself as I purged the cobwebs of drowsiness, fatigue, and mental strain from the interior of my skull with rich scent of the hot liquid. _Dick, wake up. Smell that sweet instant heart attack… This has_ always _inspired you to get your moldering carcass out of bed, no matter how much you felt like you got run over by a double decker bus the day before. Smell it from where you are and_ wake the hell up. _Don’t make me come in there and wave it under your nose…_

I paused, considering that as though I were a scientist whose lightbulb just profoundly went off, and opted to try that when I was (fucking finally) able to visit. Maybe the scent of coffee would at least _help_ bring him around. Scents of foods he liked, maybe? The lotion I used that he loved so much? Peach’s little stinky cat breath? 

Who knew. Anything was worth a try. 

I added my habitual cream and sugar (gestational diabetes, oh, no!), took my coffee out onto the back deck, lit the candle that would keep the obnoxious bugs away, and flipped on the umbrella’s string lights to read a little and watch the sun come up. I had spent _so_ many pre-dawn hours doing the exact same thing since coming home. 

I couldn’t concentrate on anything too dense or convoluted, so I just reread a few of my old, dog-eared _Fear Street_ novels (cackling again when I thought on just how epically that elitist Jason would flip his wig inside and out if he caught me reading something so cute), and then shuffled through a few back-dated issues of _Women’s Running_ and _Blackbelt_ while I slowly sipped my way through my coffee. 

I got up twice to refill my coffee cup, hedging a little over the generally accepted coffee limit for pregos like myself, but I figured one occasion of hedonism wouldn’t hurt. When the sky lightened, I toasted an Eggo for myself, and smiled a little even as a tight-fisted hand grasped and tugged my heart downward when I remembered Dick had nicknamed them “Preggos” back in the days those same waffles were all I felt like eating on my especially bad weekends, the good old days of the endless, torturesome nausea and vomiting. 

I missed him. 

I sighed, fighting a feeling of being lost and staring at the toaster until it startlingly popped the waffle like a Jack-in-the-box. I felt a little less than splendid, but not like the twice-masticated, swallowed, and regurgitated crap I felt like earlier on, so I drowned the condensed carbs in butter and syrup. 

“Fuck yeah,” I drawled into the silent kitchen as I finished dousing my breakfast in hyperglycemia, jerked my elbow back, and then giggled some more, the laughter bordering on hysterics. 

“Jeez, Arty, get it together,” I muttered to myself, wiping a tear. “Or get help or something. Stop talking to yourself, for starters. And stop waiting for a reply. …Okay!” 

As I brought my Preggo and scandalous third cup of coffee toward the deck, still fighting giggles, I heard my mom’s voice from the sunroom. 

“Mom?” I said, relieved at some company to defuse my apparent psychosis. Placing the cup and plate down, I wandered toward the breezeway, seeking her. 

I quieted when I saw through the screen door that she was on the phone, and not only on the phone, but _incensed_ at whoever it was she was talking to. 

Struck with the childhood embarrassment of stumbling upon my parent in a moment of towering temper that was never meant to be witnessed, in particular by _the children_ (gasp!), I moved to leave her to it, but paused and hovered a moment, torn. 

I _knew_ I shouldn’t listen in, but I stayed put, and stood by the corner of the door, where I’d be mostly out of sight if my mom happened to turn. 

It was barely seven in the morning, and my mother was hissing and growling into the phone — I _had_ to know what was up. 

“Lawrence,” my mother said, and every molecule froze on the spot. 

I listened — _hard._

“Just… let me ask you something,” she said, and although her voice retained the low hum of anger just barely contained, it carried with it the tone of a teacher adopting an infinite patience with a relentless problem child. “Let me ask you something _serious._ And I want you to answer me with complete and total honesty — if that’s even possible. Do you expect me to be waiting for you at my front door with a _Welcome Home_ sign and a goddamn cake?” 

I felt my back stiffen against the doorpost. _Oh, Christ, Luthor’s already put the pieces for Sportsmaster’s release in motion…_ I realized in sickening horror. 

“Shut _up,_ Lawrence,” my mother snarled. “I married you because I _loved_ you. I loved you — Lawrence, _I loved you._ I _knew_ you could be cruel. I _knew_ you could be completely heartless. Even in our line of work, you were always notoriously brutal. I was in the life to _survive,_ you were in it because you _liked_ it. _But I loved you._ And you were _different_ around me, I saw it enough that I _thought_ you could change, that we could have a new life someday. And I held onto that hope for so long, _too_ long — Lawrence, be quiet — _shut up_ and let me talk. _Let me talk._ You listen to me, I _know_ now I was wrong — _so_ wrong. Everything you’ve done to our girls, our family — I could forgive you for leaving me, I could _justify_ what you did in some twisted way, I could get past you throwing me to the wolves like that. But what you did to our daughters, what you’ve done to Artemis — you were going to give her to some psychotic _cho cai_ to be murdered and her baby _stolen_ from her! From us! You’re her _father,_ Lawrence! It was your _granddaughter!_ How could you _do_ that to them? I don’t understand how anyone could _do_ that —” 

There was a pause, and I felt a tear slide hot over my cheek. I wanted so much to run to my mom, to hug her, to let her know I was with her in this, to take the phone from her and give my piece of shit excuse for a paternal sperm donor a furious piece of my mind. But to do so would give away that I was listening in — and I had a feeling that my mother didn’t want me to witness this. 

I sucked my lip between my teeth, biting down as my abdomen tightened again. I’d been having a _lot_ of contractions, I realized. 

“Do you even _know_ the pain she’s in, Lawrence?” my mother snapped. “Do you even _care?_ Has a single thought of how our daughter might _feel,_ what this has _done_ to her entered your mind? And what you did to — what you did to Dick, how _could_ you —” 

Mom hitched, and dragged her breath wetly in through her nostrils in a distraught sniff. 

“You don’t know what he meant to us,” she said, then after the slightest pause, laughed bitterly. “No. You did. You knew _damn_ well what he meant to us. You knew that boy was a _son_ to me.” 

A pause, and then another embittered chuckle. 

“I don’t need proof. There’s not a soul involved in this that doesn’t know it was you. The Joker ratted you out to the Batman, anyway. The forensics will come eventually — you just give it time.” A beat. “I don’t care who’s in your corner. Don’t forget whose son you just put in a coma — only one of the most influential and wealthiest men in the world.” She laughed mirthlessly after another brief pause. “Whoever’s backing you, even _their_ resources won’t outdo those of Bruce Wayne’s. You’ve finally run afoul of entirely the wrong people this time, _Sportsmaster.”_

I couldn’t help feeling a grim sort of satisfaction as I stood, my palm open over my increasingly uncomfortable belly, bracing it. I had been on the receiving end of my mother’s fiery rages and remonstrations (and that right plenty.) I knew that she was once a deadly, feared assassin, who remained fully capable of laying a fatal smackdown. But that knowledge had been distant, somehow, _filtered,_ in a way — and now, I was coming to truly appreciate just how capable, how _strong_ she was. 

My mother’s voice darkened further as she continued. “You listen to me, you soulless _cho de,_ you son of a bitch — if you take this newfound freedom, providing you get it, and come _anywhere_ near me and mine again, I will _kill_ you outright. God as my witness, I will. And you know _damn_ well I can. Don’t forget who I was and _still am._ ” 

My heart thundered in my chest as I vacillated, wondering if I ought to reveal myself and hopefully end the conversation before my mom said something that _really_ got her in the shit with my dad, even as I only grew more impressed with my mother’s display of fearlessness and strength (I mean, men five times her size and with full use of their physical faculties wouldn’t _dare_ speak to my father like that for fear of an extremely painful death, and yet there she was — threatening him, unintimidated, unafraid.) But I couldn’t _bear_ the idea of her _really_ pissing him off and giving him cause to extend his growing list of vendettas to her. 

“Try it, Lawrence. You don’t frighten me. Don’t forget who landed you on your ass in front of Ra’s al Ghul in that tournament. I can do it again without my legs — I _know_ you. And don’t forget who’s in my corner to back me up after the fact.” There was a pause. “That’s right. And by the way, that divorce you never granted me? I’m filing for it again — and _this_ time, I’ll have all the support I need to see it done. Whatever happens in the next weeks, you’ll only end up _rotting_ in Belle Reve, anyway, toothless, abandoned, and forgotten — and just so we’re fully clear on everything we’ve ever discussed between us, _thang cac be’.”_

I smothered my laughter in my fist. My mom had just told my dad he had a tiny cock. _She had just told him he had a tiny cock._ I could barely cope. _God,_ I wished Jade, Dick, _and_ Wally could have overheard that. 

“That’s right,” said Mom, her tone almost _smug._ “Goodbye, Lawrence.” 

Then, quiet. 

Finally, the sound of her sobbing. 

I wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but I knew that I couldn’t. I sighed, my back pressed to the doorframe. My mother would never have wanted me to overhear the things I had. I knew her, just as she knew me. Her past as Huntress, the dark passenger that rode with her even then — she did all she could to hide it from me and shield me from it, only defaulting to it as a kind of admonitory tale, one intended to keep me on the right path. 

I drew in a breath, concentrating away the cramping in my belly, thoughts unfurling slowly and with perfect clarity inside my mind, their whisperings quiet, but distinctly heard. 

I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering myself, and then headed to the backdoor of the house. I took the requisite key from where it hung in its customary spot. 

Making my way across the backyard, catching sight of Brucely where he chilled under a tree, I approached the wooden storage “shed” that had come with the house. It wasn’t really a _shed,_ more of a detached fixture the size of a three-car garage. It might have been one, once, minus the fact that the door to the front was an enforced aluminum sliding barn style. Formerly used as a workshop by the home’s previous owners, it was well-maintained, and clearly appreciated, indicated by its obvious upkeep and sturdy structure. It was perfect for our needs, and one of the major selling points of the house — large enough to incorporate a dojo and training area, and to also subtly store and maintain our more questionable goods (aka, our vigilante equipment and suits.) We nicknamed it the Outhouse. 

I unlocked the door to the Outhouse, and flicked on the light. I sighed in satisfaction, taking in the familiar scents that imbrued the air. Metal, welding afterthoughts, small hints of sweat and musk, already worked into the gym mats. I walked slowly over to the rigging in the far corner, and laid my fingers on the rings that dangled lonesomely from it. I grasped them, feeling them, recalling with a searing sadness the sight of Dick’s knuckles clasped around those same rings, supporting his weight in effortless, graceful muscle-ups, nary a hint of a tremor in his form. I could understand why he’d opted out of attempting the Olympics — even at his skill level, it required more time and focus than he could devote to it with all he had on his plate already, and he wasn’t willing to sacrifice Nightwing for the requisite period to concentrate on something he felt to be self-centered by comparison — but I would have loved to see him compete someday, not just coach those who would. 

I sighed, and leaned my forehead against one of the rings, taking in its rubbery, sweaty, chalky smell. 

My father had taken so much from all of us, I thought, tracing the ring’s curvature, pausing when (yet another) contraction assaulted me. I breathed my way through it, bending slightly, and then straightened when it released its grip. And I knew, standing in the Outhouse, surrounded by the shadows of Dick’s former life, the one he would never again know even if he did wake up, that Lawrence Crusher Crock would never _stop_ taking, never give in. 

And I couldn’t let my mother suffer anymore than she already had. She had, undoubtedly, taken as much comfort in the familiarity of training and physical capability as I did, as Dick had. And my father had left her to take the fall — literally and figuratively — for him, and didn’t feel even a twinge in his gut for it. He didn’t even seem to notice how much my mother struggled as she went through her prison sentence, then adapted to a half-emasculated life as a crippled con on the outside, when before she had once been a physical powerhouse and had banked on that aspect of herself for safety and identity. Dad had l _eft_ her to that, and then he had gone on to _thrust_ that same cruelty on Dick. 

And now, as though that wasn’t quite enough, he was deliberately tormenting my mother all over again — bullying and threatening her in every way he could. Drunk on victory and power, surely, his already swollen head inflating to a size so massive that all of Belle Reve surely couldn’t contain it. And from the sounds of it, I was right — Luthor _had_ put the pieces for his infuriating, unjust release in motion, a means of thanking him for removing Dick from the board and fulfilling whatever promises he had made in exchange for performing that strategic move. 

He’d come for my mom soon enough — she had _dared_ mouth off to him, and Dad wouldn’t stand for that. No sirree, Bub. He’d be sure my mother remembered her place, no doubt about it. That he’d likely come also for me, given I’d escaped his revolting attempt at revenge, seemed somehow _infinitely_ less important. I was no longer afraid of my father, no longer fearful for my own safety. In fact, I _welcomed_ my father’s response. 

_Let him come,_ I thought darkly, a cold fury unlacing in my abdomen, reaching slowly and calculatingly through my limbs. _Come and get me, Pops — I’m waiting._

When that son of a bitch showed up, I’d be _ready_ for him. 

Mary was due long before he’d get be able to get out of jail, even with the most expedited legal actions moving things forward. And when he came, and I did whatever that fucker deemed necessary to guard my family, it would be the single most literally clear-cut case of self-defense, executed with the only tool available to me against my murderous, menacing father — a collector’s item prized by martial arts aficionados such as Dick and myself, soon to be hung over the mantle. 

I had my mother’s old sword, the one that my father had nabbed and held onto, and that I’d later pinched (blaming its disappearance on thieves who’d surely pilfered it while I was at the corner convenience store, not an uncommon thing in the Bowery, Dad!), and had kept for myself as memorabilia — it was a reminder of my bloodline, of who my mother once was, of her power and ability, of the genetic inheritance of pure talent that I’d turned from survival to fighting for _good._ I preferred the bow, but was actually even better with a blade — and that skill _scared_ me before that moment in the Outhouse. Arrows could be augmented into instruments less lethal, and there was a degree of separation between those fired on and the archer that comforted me. Hand-to-hand combat was _satisfying,_ in a way, a dance that came together seamlessly in the end — and one that was just as non-lethal in the right hands as the bow could be. 

The sword, however, was a deadly instrument that was about as personal as it got. I wondered if, should I turn to the blade, my DNA would win out — and I’d leave a trail of dead behind as I cut my failed path towards truth and justice. 

Tigress began as an alter-ego to an alter-ego — and a villainous one, at that. Defaulting to blades just seemed a natural decision, play-acting the role of wicked Kaldur’s equally wicked righthand. Tigress the hero continued to carry a sword, but moved on to work with the bow first and foremost. 

She had to. 

The anger, the desperation, the overload of raw, burning emotion I felt in the wake of Wally’s disappearance made it so. If I’d kept the blade in hand, I might have _slashed_ through the pain and anguish, desperately seeking a way out of the forest of sorrow that held me trapped. 

My mom’s sword hung in the storage closets, the ones that were locked so far down and so reinforced that it would take the average hack thief _years_ to get into them, and that were hidden behind double layers of mat material and wooden wall. They were easy enough to access when you knew how to get to them, however, and they also contained Dick’s Nightwing paraphernalia — his suit, his weapons, everything. 

I glanced over at the custom motorcycles behind me, both of which hid their distinguishing characteristics beneath holographic camouflage, a feature undetectable and disabled when brought out to act as our warhorses. One was an augmented Suzuki Hayabusa — Dick’s work bike, and the other, mine, a BMW K 1200S. It was a gift from Ollie when I moved on to become Tigress. 

Half of our lives rested in the Outhouse. Part of Dick’s lab was connected to machines in this same expansive room. This satellite office took up a small, uninvasive corner. A refrigerator that we kept stocked with post-workout and all-nighter whatnots rested behind the desk. 

My chest burned. 

It was all so grotesquely _unfair_. Dick, who was not only an innocent _,_ but as the League put it, “a champion of justice, a hero!” would struggle for the rest of his life, punished for his good deeds, while my heartless bastard father (a murderer, a criminal, a sociopath, a bona fide asshole!) would be released from jail, _rewarded_ for his crimes. 

My palms perspired. Apart from Dick’s spinal cord getting unzipped under the first lumbar, he’d be facing all sorts of problems with his internals, possible kidney or renal failure and chronic pancreatitis, to name a few, thanks to the shotgun blast. His lungs were a trainwreck. His stomach and intestines were a mess. He no longer had a spleen or an appendix. The clout he’d taken to the side of his head had shattered his orbital with too many fractures to count and made real nice work of his eye — his retina had torn and detached, and the macula showed signs of damage, as well. Fixing that shambles was a surgery that couldn’t be prioritized yet, Thompkins said — if and when he woke up, well, then they’d worry about it. But as it stood, he was blind in that eye, and even after the surgery they just couldn’t prioritize yet, he’d still need corrective lenses. He hadn’t lost all of his teeth — most of his molars and premolars were intact, along with one canine, but all of his incisors and the other canine teeth, top and bottom, were cracked or broken or totally gone. He’d need dental implants, maxillofacial surgery — and probably some serious self-confidence beforehand. 

If he was awake by Halloween, I had half a mind to make a crack that he should dress as Dustin from _Stranger Things,_ but I also wondered if that might land my own teeth in places other than my head. I didn’t know fully how to approach him when he woke, but levity seemed like a hit or miss strategy — landing spot on the mark or missing by astronomical units. I guessed I’d have to see when he _did_ wake up. 

He’d also have some minor disfigurement from his caved orbital, but with plastic surgery it wouldn’t even be noticeable, Thompkins assured us. The scars across his lips would never fully melt away, however — the best that could be promised were thin grooves indenting his lower and upper labrum, although these wouldn’t affect his appearance too awfully in the end. 

Even less to be done for the gunshot scarring in his abdomen, however, and _nothing_ to be done for his mobility. No amount of nerve transplants would gain him so much as the ability to use a standing wheelchair. He’d never even have sex in the traditional sense again, which was the ultimate let’s-add-insult-to-injury act of rubbing salt in the wound. _I_ didn’t need a penis to have an orgasm, but to my knowledge, _he_ did. I’d already resolved to contact Mila when he woke up — Dick was a bit of a dynamo. He _needed_ sex as much as he needed food and air. I didn’t know if his drive would alter — honestly, it might — but if it didn’t, something would _have_ to fill that need. Mila seemed a natural resource — and that aside, having perused her YouTube series, kept up with her blog, and followed her social media, there was something soothing about the woman’s presence that made me feel comfortable approaching her with so sensitive and intimate a subject. 

But then, maybe it wouldn’t matter that much in the long run — Thompkins said she doubted he’d live past the age of thirty, whether or not he woke up. 

“This amount of trauma will have lifelong, serious consequences, plenty of which can be fatal, and I just don’t see his life expectancy extending beyond thirty. I don’t want to dash any hopes you might have, Artemis, but I don’t want to be unrealistic and give you _false_ hopes, either,” she’d said over the phone. 

Dick had listed me as the sole beneficiary and executor of his will — hence, I got to hear all the lovely details about his injuries and prognoses as his legal next-of-kin, ahead even of Bruce now. 

I gritted my teeth. It mattered, I insisted to myself. Dick had already bucked expectations — I believed he would continue to. He lived when they said he wouldn’t, after all, and minus a blip in the form of multiple systems failure the week before, he resolutely showed zero signs of saying anything other than “Not today” to the god of death. He would wake up. And he’d see his thirtieth birthday. And more beyond. 

I believed in him. _Had_ to. 

My fists clenched, as much in resolve and anger as in response to the contraction that assaulted my abdomen, the strongest of the morning so far. I was suspicious that something more than Braxton-Hicks was afoot by then, but I’d had one false labor alarm already since coming home, and didn’t want to unnecessarily concern my mom — especially in the wake of my father’s phone call. 

I made my way into the storage units, shifting the mats away, entering the code to slide the retractable wall to the side, and then unlocking the units individually. 

My teeth clenched when I saw the Nightwing suit, the Escrima sticks, the myriad weapons, the equipped utility belts. So much of Dick’s identity, _taken_ from him, and so much taken from me, as well — all at a speed of 1,300 feet per second. 

I turned my attention to my mother’s sword, which hung not far from my own suit. 

I pulled her old _kiem_ from its hanging, and withdrew it from the scabbard, hearing the muted, sliding scrape as I did. It was dull by then, I noticed as I thumbed its edge. Not a surprise, given the amount of time it had been out of service. It also needed a good polishing. My reflection was muddy in the blade. 

Still, its heft was _perfect_ — it was a light, maneuverable weapon, just right for an adroit, compact fighter, one fleet-footed and swift. Aka, a fighter like myself. 

Screw bed rest. I was days off from my due date and the sword was blunt as a spoon, anyway. 

I spent some time exercising with the sword, familiarizing myself with its weight and length, careful not to do anything too strenuous, so as to avoid pulling and straining a bunch of underused muscles just before going into labor. Here and there, I paused as the worsening contractions hit, their rhythm quickening, their discomfort increasing. I inhaled, and begged my body for another false alarm. This _needed_ to be done. 

The monster would come to the door. 

I _had_ to be sure I was fully, comfortably prepared — and I couldn’t pretend that there was no possibility my father might show up as soon as that afternoon. There was no room for complacency, for assumptions. And I didn’t want League help, didn’t want team help, didn’t even want aid from my sister. This was _my_ burden now. 

I’d protect my child, my mother, my partner, my sister and niece — _all_ of my family, at whatever cost my father determined. 

I wouldn’t let my mother shoulder the burdens my father forced on her anymore. Never again. She would _never_ have to face him, reckon with him — never, ever, _ever_ again. My sister would never have to suffer his presence, never have to _prove_ herself to him just to ensure her survival. Dick wouldn’t have to live with the idea that the beast who stole his life from him had not been forced to answer for what he’d done. My daughter and niece would never have to fear the nebulous stalker that crept in the background of their lives, a shadow that endlessly stirred, unseen but always felt. I would be there. 

_I got this,_ I thought _. It’s all me now. No one else._

I was panting by then, sheening with a skin of sweat. My stomach tightened, and then compacted in on itself so powerfully that I wound up squatting down, shaking with strain, holding my breath, the sword on the ground at my feet. 

_Please,_ I thought dimly, _I just need a little more time —_

Quivering, moving slowly, I set to sharpening the blade at the welding station a ways off from the motorcycles. If anyone came inquiring, the station and tools were used for our custom bikes — our ruse hobby. I used the whetstone from the storage unit, the one that would hone the blade into an edge so precise it would shear the edge off a buzzcut, to get the job done. 

I ran the blade over its surface, creating a rhythm of sound, a pattern of textures, pausing as the contractions kept coming, their regularity increasing, until one felled me like a tree under a zealous lumberjack. The sword clattered atop the ground, and the whetstone provided something of a stress ball, braced against the flooring where I pressed my hand down hard on its surface as I waited out the suffocating compression in my belly. 

Okay. This was the real deal. I knew it in my _bones_ this was no false alarm. 

Well, to hell with the sword, I supposed — for then, anyway. It was sharp enough to slow my father down, at least. 

I placed in its scabbard, and left it behind the desk. Taking it into the house would give my little guardian mission away to my mom, something I didn’t want, but I had to have the sword somewhere more accessible than in the storage units, just in case. I ended up on my butt a second later by the office chair, my stomach compacting into a crushing ball of stony fire. 

“Oh, fuck —” I hissed, “fuck, fuck —” 

Then, I couldn’t even speak as that _excruciating_ pain doubled itself. 

“Oh, God…” I murmured pitifully when it at last receded. A tear dripped onto the throw rug under me, followed by a drop of snot from my abruptly running nose. 

Okay. Time to wake up Zatanna. 

Shaking, swaying on my feet, I stood, shut and locked the storage units and set the false walls back up, and finally made my unsteady, hurried way back to the house. 

_Just a little longer, please just wait a little longer, you listen to your mom now, don’t be totally headstrong and disobedient like both your parents —_

I made it inside, and found my mom in the kitchen, where she wheeled about, apparently making breakfast, evident by the nauseating smell of bacon. 

“Oh, there you are,” she said when she saw me enter the room. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you and calling you — Artemis, you’re red as a brick and you’re pouring sweat. What in God’s name have you been up to? You’re supposed to be _resting —”_

“Mom,” I interrupted, my voice so breathless it might have been funny in other situations, “can you wake up Zatanna?” 

Realization came over her face in that moment, followed by a grin that stretched ear to ear and crinkled the corners of her eyes, which welled all at once with tears. She just nodded, apparently overcome for the moment, and then reached for her phone. She wheeled to me, and took my hand when another contraction knocked me to my knees. 

“Zatanna? It’s Paula,” she said. Her voice thrummed vaguely in the black cloud that overtook everything around me, and withstood my crushing grip on her fingers without complaint. “It looks like it’s time. Can you come downstairs?” 

I hissed, even that sound cutting itself off when I could no longer breathe. 

“You may want to hurry,” my mom added, and then she pressed my hand with her fingers. 

_Oh, yeah, it’s definitely time…_ I thought vaguely, everything whirlpooling into an acrid, painful shadow. _Asses and elbows, Zatanna, labor doesn’t wait for anyone, you know…_

I cleaved to my mom’s hand, spasmodically breathing my way through the vices that crushed my abdomen in rolling, quickening waves, and just _prayed_ we’d make it to the hospital in time. 


	32. 7-27-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! <3
> 
> SOOOOO -- quick note! 
> 
> I will be putting this story on hiatus for a couple of weeks after this update -- it's just so I can get caught up and finish it. <3 Should start posting again around December or so! <3 ^_^ Apologies!
> 
> All my love and thanks to Zoeleo for her wonderful beta work. <3 You're a blessing on this earth and in every single universe, darling! <3 ^_^
> 
> Happy reading, and see y'all around December, loves!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

_ July 27, 2019 _

_Artemis_

Mary came fast and furious. 

So much for any form of a birth plan — not only was my birthing partner swapped, but _nothing_ went according to the parameters I’d set prior to the event with Dr. Jeun. 

We landed in the hospital, got shuttled into a birthing room, and I’d barely gotten into the hospital gown and signed whatever papers were shoved under my nose when the contractions amplified themselves so profoundly that I got the strange, abstract sense I was sucked under a ten ton raft in the midst of a class five rapid — trapped in buffeting, bone-breaking eddies and undercurrents, all the light and air snuffed and drowned, everything funneled into a suffocating, pummeling blackness. Only this was _agony,_ and not water. 

I had opted for the epidural, and not necessarily because I was desperate to have one or even nervous about the pain of labor and birth, but because, when Dick and I chatted about it, he asked me to please, please, _please_ get the damn spinal block. 

“Why?” I asked him, jokingly nudging him. I stuffed the Twix bar I was snacking on full-stop into my mouth, puffed my chest, and through the resultant chipmunk cheeks, said, “Come on, you think _this_ chick can’t handle herself?” 

He chuckled at my affected display, but quickly sobered. “No, trust me, I _know_ you can handle it. It’s more that _I_ can’t handle it.” 

I’d drawn up short and painfully swallowed the mouthful of Twix. “…Oh.” 

“I mean, you don’t _have_ to get the epidural if you don’t want to, Arty, that’s not what I’m saying,” he said. “Our crunchier — sorry, more _holistic_ friends would all be super proud if you decided to go in kicking it naturally, anyway. But I can’t guarantee _I_ won’t have a complete meltdown if I have to watch you suffer through it, and Raquel said having Amistad naturally was the most horrifically painful experience of her entire life — and that’s even taking into account our line of often physically traumatizing work.” He sighed, and was quiet for a moment. “…I couldn’t even handle your not-dead dead body.” 

I stared. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

I was flabbergasted. I’d worried I hadn’t milked it enough at the time. 

He nodded. “Hit a little close to home. Got me thinking _what if_ — like what would I do if it were real, and…” He shook his head. “Artemis, I couldn’t even cope with just _thoughts_ of it. I had to look away. And honestly, I have _nightmares_ about it. Seeing you actually suffer, like suffer for real…” 

Oh. 

Well, that was humbling and oddly endearing. I opted for meds. 

The meds didn’t happen in reality, however. Part of me felt an urge to crack some joke that at least Dick missed that part of things, since childbirth hurt as much as the rumors indicated. 

But it didn’t stop me from _wishing_ with all my being that he was there, missing him with an unspeakable pain to match my physical torment as I lay on that damn birthing table, crushed under the rolling, quickening contractions, struggling to speak to the nurse drawing my blood to send to anesthesia, and equally struggling _not_ to murder the one at the foot of the bed telling me to remember to breathe. 

“You’re still breathing for your baby, don’t forget,” she chided gently as I held my breath and kept my body ramrod still in an effort to ball up against the torture. 

I inwardly reminded myself to kill her later if I was still mad after everything calmed down and the realization that she was right sank in properly. 

“Breathe with me, hon,” said Zatanna, and the comforting familiarity of her voice anchored me somewhat, and I focused on her words, the sound and pattern of her breathing, and inhaled and exhaled at the rhythm she conducted. I was _so_ thankful that at least she was there. I leaned the back of my head into her shoulder, soft and soothing, where Dick’s would have been hard and sheltering. 

“I’d — die — if you weren’t here —” I gasped, and then entertained a somewhat lucid moment of detached embarrassment when my voice involuntarily turned out a series of undignified moans of pain, a strange choir of sounds that might have invoked pity and discomfort in the casual onlooker. 

“Not going anywhere, Arty,” Zatanna said, and even as her voice reverberated in a strange, ululating cadence somewhere outside of my skull, her words comforted me. “Breathe.” 

Tears sprang into my eyes and poured over my cheeks, and I broke rhythm under the vice that sadistically squashed my middle, cutting off my breath, my blood flow, my heartbeat, my brain function, my sight — _everything._

When it loosened, not fully retracting itself, but at least leaving room for semi-cognizant speech, I lost my breath in a sagging exhalation. 

“Help… me…” I moaned pitifully. 

The phrase was meant to be spoken in humor, but came out sounding so utterly desolate and pathetic that all comedy was completely lost. It sounded mortifyingly genuine instead. 

Zatanna stroked my damp, clinging hair. “Help’s coming, hon. Hang in there. Breathe, okay? In, two, three… out, two, three.” 

“I can’t breathe — I can’t even _think_ — Nurse-at-the-foot-of-the-bed — look — I just feel like I need to take a giant shit and if I crap all over you I am _so_ sorry —” I expelled rapidly in one big breath. 

Bye-bye, bologna, and bye-bye, dignity. 

The nurse’s eyes widened comically as she gave me a horrified look. 

“I’m sorry!” I wept miserably, then groaned and started hollering. 

When that (godawful) contraction passed — sort of — the nurse just shook her head. 

“No, don’t apologize for that — I just don’t want to look down there and see that baby’s head poking out,” she said with a laugh. 

I gawped like a lunatic even as sweat poured in runnels down my heated face. I could barely mouth the word, “What!” 

Zatanna gave me the funniest _Well, shit!_ look I’d ever seen and took my hand, which shook convulsively in hers. 

“Phew. You’re shaking big time. Artemis, I hate to tell you this, but when you get the shakes and start feeling like you need to shit all over this delivery table, baby’s already here. I don’t think you’re getting the epidural,” she said. 

“I don’t think I am, either,” I whined feebly, that whine morphing into a series of involuntary, strangled shouts. 

Dr. Jeun _finally_ came speeding in, having been interrupted while out for breakfast with her family (so sorry, Doc), and as she suited up, stars lit in my vision, and I writhed weakly with tight, stiff limbs on the table, my neck craning and the ceiling overhead going from white to yellow, then from yellow to red, and then finally to black in my vision. 

“Okay, okay, I’m here,” Dr. Jeun said, her voice seeming to come from millions of miles away, “oh, _barely_ in time —” 

Zatanna hiked one of my legs up, anchoring my heel and knee in her grasp while the nurse took over the other, and I _wished_ on some dim level that remained stalwartly coherent that I could have heard what Dick might have had to say if he could have witnessed that moment exactly as it was. 

I can’t say I remember a whole lot of that segment of things, other than that I pushed a little too hard when the time came and tore myself to Kingdom Come (whoops.) Mary (who would later weigh in at an impressive eight pounds and seven ounces) came bursting out the door like a human cannonball in a circus performance. Fitting, I guess. It might have been comical, except for how excited I immediately became the nanosecond that lurid hell was over, all remaining physical discomforts be damned. 

In the flurry of voices and exclamations at this, along with a smattering of laughter, none of which I actually heard in any generally understood sense of the term, I breathlessly sat forward in my fervor and impatience, my heart thundering, eyes looking, seeking. 

I about bounced out of my skin to see that Dr. Jeun had caught the baby, my thoughts a jumbled flurry of things such as _oh, my God, it’s Mary, it’s her — oh,_ wow, _she looks so much like_ Dick… 

And then I heard it — oh, _beautiful_ sound — that first cry as Dr. Jeun wiped her down. I couldn’t help it. I started crying and laughing at the same time like a crazed sap, even as my weakened body shook and sweat dribbled over my skin. 

I lay back, an overpowering wash of pure, unadulterated joy shivering its way through my tired form as Dr. Jeun _finally_ laid Mary across my chest, helping me to position her on the expanse of skin over the bodice of the hospital gown with her little head propped on my collarbone, her shifting limbs cushioned under the blanket that the nurse covered her up with. 

Everything outside of me in that moment completely _vanished_ — nothing heard, nothing seen, nothing even taken notice of as I just lay with my daughter curled against my chest, her warmth infusing into my skin, her shape nestled in a perfect fit in my arms, her breathing complementing mine. I inhaled the scent of her as she cuddled (adorably) in closer, her cries receding into little snuffles and gurgles that threatened to unspool me into an irreparable wreck. I kissed the soft hair atop her head, tears refilling my eyes as I experienced the profound sense that I was really, truly _home_ for the first time in my life. 

“Oh, I can’t believe it…” I breathed stupidly, and then started giggling at how _sappy_ I sounded. 

Zatanna joined in, and I finally remembered that she was next to me. I also realized with a warming sensation that she’d been cooing over the baby that whole while, her hand resting on my shoulder, her presence subtly holding all of my parts together — the parts that would have fallen away from one another if she hadn’t been there, and I’d been allowed to face this alone without my partner. 

“Oh, she’s so gorgeous,” Zatanna said, sniffing and dragging a hand across her own watering eyes. 

I laughed, and hugged her with one arm as she clasped me in both of hers. 

“Well, of course she is, did you expect Dick to have an ugly baby?” I gaffed, even though I was sobbing like an idiot the entire while. 

“Or you,” Zatanna pointed out. She issued a laugh-sob. “You know what’s pathetic, Arty, is that some losers actually _cry_ over this stuff. Can you _believe_ that?” 

I laughed heartily even as I streamed tears. 

“You are one pathetic loser!” I giggled wetly. 

Zatanna squeezed my shoulders again, and surprised me a little when she kissed my forehead. “Seriously, though, Artemis, she’s just gorgeous.” 

And even if I knew I was totally biased, I _had_ to agree. 

I spent a lot of time just after giving birth, even while I got poked and squeezed and sewn and God knew what else, ignoring the outside world and just _looking_ at Mary, really taking in the sight of her face and her features, appreciating the truly startling resemblance she bore to her father, studying her, running my fingers over her shape, just familiarizing myself with her. I took in every sound she made, delighting in each one, fretting when they carried even the slightest hint of distress. I lifted the blanket just enough to peek at the flat length of her smooth back, somehow feeling endeared by how her diaper clung to her hips (why was that so _cute_ to me?) I grinned when her fingers closed around my thumb, that grin widening when she blinked and looked up at me with a sort of neoteric, wondering comprehension in her eyes. _God,_ she looked like Dick — from the cloudy shock of dark hair, to the little jump at the end of her tiny nose, to the shape of her eyes. Only her lips and the curvature of her face were mine. 

“Suits me fine,” I murmured to her, just loud enough for only her to hear. “Your dad’s cuter, anyway.” 

As I held her, feeling somehow as though our _souls_ were touching, her little heart beating unfelt but sensed on a spiritual level against my skin just over my own, I fell instantaneously, wholeheartedly, would-do-the-most-unimaginably-asinine-things in love with that baby. It was a love of a kind I intrinsically knew to be _unique —_ entirely specific to this bond, and _only_ this bond. I would love only Mary like this, with _this_ love, and absolutely _no other._ Ever. It was something instinctive, primordial, irrefutably all-encompassing, wholly unconditional. No matter what happened, no matter how events unfolded, no matter the person my daughter would become — I knew I would love her as totally and unendingly as I did so immediately in that first moment. I drew her closer to me, brimming with that far-reaching, one-of-a-kind love, and with a burgeoning fierce, aggressive _protectiveness_. This was the one human being I would unhesitatingly not merely die for, but _kill_ for — without qualm or compunction. That she was a tie to, a _connection_ with Dick only made her even more precious to me. 

“Oh, Jason wants to know what your favorite meal is,” Zatanna said, thumbing the screen of her phone and jarring me momentarily out of the spell my daughter held me under. 

“Oh, umm… Those enchiladas he had Dick and me make that one time,” I answered honestly. “ _God,_ those things were good. Crap — you know, I actually haven’t eaten yet today.” 

Zatanna grinned at me. “I think he knows that and that’s exactly why he’s asking.” 

“Is he coming to visit? If he does and he brings food, I will seriously be his best friend,” I said. “You know, speaking of eating…” I glanced down at Mary. 

(Mary. Mary Paula. Mary Paula Grayson. My daughter. Dick’s daughter. Ah! Would the novelty ever fade?!) 

The nurse helped me then with the first feeding, which proceeded fairly smoothly, although nursing later on proved an infinitely more difficult process than I anticipated (I had _expected_ ease and transcendence, a holy light to surround Mary and me as I effortlessly nourished my child with my unending bounty, all the while glowing with the otherworldly beauty and altruism of a Catholic saint. I guess the Goddess Myth claimed yet another victim in yours truly for those first few weeks — at least, until I realized that those widespread visions of perfect, radiant motherhood were nothing short of total bullshit. A fact confirmed by Jade, Raquel, _and_ my mother.) 

Dr. Jeun, finishing up with her (painful) doctorly things, straightened, and smiled as she looked down at the baby, finished feeding by then. 

“Oh, she is _all_ Daddy,” she observed in her accented voice, gently running a hand over Mary’s fuzzy hair. 

“Yeah, I’ll say,” I agreed. “If there was ever any question about that before, I don’t think there is now.” 

Zatanna laughed. “Remember how hesitant you were to tell us about this at first? Including who the dad was?” 

I laughed, too. “Yeah, there would’ve been absolutely no hiding any of that at this point.” 

Quiet came over the room as the cumbrous fact made itself abruptly, powerfully known, once again, that a truly pivotal element of this whole equation was agonizingly _missing._ I gazed silently down at Mary, visualizing what it might have looked like when Dick held her, how I might have felt to watch them together, words he might have spoken to her. I wondered if he would have cried, just as Zatanna and I had. If I knew him, and believe me, I did — the answer was yes. He would have. 

I let loose a deep, slow sigh, full of sorrow and regret — and not just for myself. Dick would just be _crushed_ when he woke up and learned everything that he’d missed. Even if our daughter’s birth was one of the happiest moments of my life, it would forever be one of the darkest and most grief-stricken moments, too. All of those conflicting feelings mixed and suffused the memory with a confused spectrum of brightest vibrancy and darkest colorlessness, a syzygy of joy and heartache. 

_Wake up soon, babe,_ I thought, a gentle encouragement sent Dick’s way, along with a prayer skyward that he’d hear or at least _comprehend_ it in some shape or form. _Don’t miss more. Please, please,_ please _wake up. Soon._

After Mary’s weight and measurements were somberly taken following that period of stricken noiselessness (and as mentioned, Mary was a sizable baby), we all got shuttled into the room I’d be staying in until we were to be released. It was surprisingly homey — warmly lit, spacious, and cutely decorated. A large window overlooked the city of Gotham beyond its confines. It was hard to reconcile this little space with the rest of Mercy, which, while it was nice as far as hospitals went, was largely institutional and sad. Dick’s room in the ICU was about as bleak and depressing as it got. 

_He ought to have been penned up here,_ I thought, looking around at my comfortable surroundings. _I wonder if they’ll ever release him to home care… I’m sure on some level he’s aware of the totally dismal sty he’s stuck in, maybe just being_ home _would do him some good._

Beyond ready to relax a little after the strain of the sleepless night and long day, I forcibly retracted my protective maternal claws and allowed Zatanna to hold Mary for a while, watching them fondly from where I lay in silence, fuzzing in and out of wakefulness. Zatanna softly stroked her goddaughter’s face, careful not to disarrange the hat that Dr. Jeun had put on her while getting her size, allowed Mary to squeeze her fingers, left little kisses on her forehead. The sight of them together salved and bandaged the vast, bleeding wounds my heart had suffered over the previous weeks, and I smiled in spite of myself, observing them. 

She handed the baby back to me after a time, and sacked out on the cramped hospital bed next to us. 

“Love you, sister from another mister,” Zatanna murmured to me, running her hand over Mary’s back under the blanket. “Ah, she’s so perfect.” 

“Cheeseball,” I teased, cuddling readily into Zatanna’s soft, warm shoulder, and realized I could draw comfort from that same soothing shoulder all day and night if she’d let me. How often had the woman beside me comforted me like this, I wondered as I took in the sweet, amber scent of her perfume — her calling card that I always recognized, even from yards away — and how could I properly express to her how unspeakably _grateful_ I was that she was there? Not to mention all the other countless times she had been — even before that one particularly crucial moment. 

_Preferably without sounding like a hopeless simp,_ I reminded myself. _Here goes…_

“I’d have died if you weren’t here,” I murmured. 

(A for effort, Arty.) 

She grinned at me. “You said that already.” 

“Oh, I did, didn’t I…” My own smile widened to mirror her own expression even as I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Well, it’s as true now as it was earlier.” 

She just reached out, and hugged me closer to her. 

“Love you, too, by the way — and thank you,” I whispered into the silky blanket of her hair. 

“No need,” she said. “But you’re welcome.” 

It wasn’t long before anticipated friends and family showed up to meet Mary. I was exhausted — _Stick a fork in me, sir, for I am done!_ — but the company was a welcome distraction from how pervasively lonely I felt for Dick. 

My mom, sister, Bruce, and Alfred claimed first dibs on visiting, each of them all smiles as they poured happily into the hospital room — Bruce included. I stared at his unaccustomed sanguine expression with such curious, intense focus that my mom had to prod me to see the baby more than once before successfully removing my attention from him. 

“Sorry, Mom,” I said, snapping to and extending the bundle that was her namesake her way. She accepted Mary, and promptly burst into tears. 

“Oh, Artemis, she’s just beautiful,” she said, wiping her cheek with her fingers. She gushed and cooed to her granddaughter. 

Call me a sap, but I totally melted dead away at the sight. 

“Everything was okay?” she asked. 

“Oh, yeah,” I assured her. “Went too fast for a lot of error, don’t worry. We’re both fine.” 

“Well, and how _are_ you feeling just now, Miss Artemis?” asked Alfred, his eyes sparkling in the lights from the window and overheads, more spring in his step than there would have been even in the sprightliest schoolboy’s. 

“Ugh, tired,” I admitted freely with a laugh. 

“I should imagine!” he concurred, smiling under his mustache. “Having a child is quite the labor, if you’ll pardon the expression. I daresay you’ve earned every inch of your fatigue. And if I may, you ladies truly are my heroes.” 

I beamed happily, warmed all the way to my marrow and toes. 

“Others are here waiting,” Bruce informed me. “Kaldur, Conner, M’gann, Barbara… Some more teammates, as well. Tim and Jason will be on their way shortly. Are you comfortable with having them come up in a minute?” 

“Wow, I’m so popular all of a sudden,” I said, chuckling and sitting up a little more properly. I boosted my lapsing hospital gown back into position on my shoulder. “Remind me to fake-die or have babies any time I start feeling lonely or like I need some validation in my life. Anyway, of course they can come up — although I might boot the guys out if they’re still here when it’s feeding time again.” 

Bruce nodded, and accepted the baby from my mom as she kindly held Mary out to him. I watched as he carefully handled the bundle that was his granddaughter with a surprising gentleness, supporting her head, cradling her mindfully to his burly chest. He clearly and visibly melted just as I had only moments before, a sight that threatened to make me do the same all over again. 

I watched them, grandfather and granddaughter, with a blossoming warmth and fondness for the man who, over the last months, had become very much a father to me. I didn’t even want to _contemplate_ the idea of my own father being present for that moment, but I mulled over the concept of just _a_ father being there — and as if on cue, there was Bruce. 

Bruce had always been at least an installment in my life — he mentored and directed Young Justice, after all, and was singlehandedly responsible for my impressive education and all of the opportunities it brought with it that I might not otherwise have known — but where he was a teacher, a loaded uncle (as Dick had become to Lian), or a fairy godfather of sorts before, he was undeniably a _father_ to me now. And while he could be awkward, detrimentally reticent, and reserved in even the best situations, he had also proven to be one of the most generous, caring, and loving men I’d ever known. 

And yep — at that thought, there I went melting again. 

“Well, you look almost exactly like your father,” Bruce stated, tucking the swaddle down under Mary’s chin. 

“Well, they say that girls who look like their fathers are loved,” I chimed in helpfully. 

“Isn’t that a bit of a damaging old wives’ tale?” Jade said wryly. 

“Maybe,” I said, “but I _like_ it in this situation, so there.” 

“Either way, she certainly is, and she certainly does,” Alfred laughed as Bruce handed Mary to him. “My _word,_ if this one isn’t Master Dick in infant form…” He smiled down at the baby, tracing her cheek with one finger, allowing her to grasp his thumb. “Yes, that’s a good grip, isn’t it… You precious, wee dote.” His smile took on a melancholic humor. “Oh, what I would give to have known Master Dick from the time he was this small.” 

“I’d be careful with that wish, Alfred — his mother said he was a handful,” Bruce said. “And his father concurred, stating the only solution for that boy was a leash.” 

“Forgive me, Master Bruce,” said Alfred, his eyes sparkling, “but that was somehow _different_ from the time we had him?” 

Bruce actually chuckled. “Fair enough.” 

“You, young lady, are quite doomed,” Alfred told me. “I’d keep the leashes and tranquilizers nearby at all times.” 

“We’re all good there, Alfred,” I said. “I lived with Dick _and_ Wally before that, don’t forget.” 

There was a smattering of laughter, and when Alfred proffered Mary to her, Jade took the baby with an experienced ease. She gave her niece a once-over, flicking her eyes from top-to-bottom in a quick inspection, and then turned to me with a smirk. 

“Lian was cuter,” she said, deadpan, and then grinned. “Kidding, obviously. Maybe.” 

I just snorted and rolled my eyes. 

“So how was your birthing experience?” she asked, approaching my bedside with Mary. In a rare moment of uncharacteristic tenderness, she gave me a genuine smile. “You look good and sweaty.” 

I smiled back at her. “It was hard and fast. I didn’t have time to get the epidural, so… I’d say that’s at least _one_ good thing about Dick not being here, since he said he didn’t want to see me in pain? Anyway, at least it was short lived. One push and she was out the door — and yes, before you ask, I tore the hell out of myself. I’d say I’m pretty well out of commission for a while. Gloat all you’d like.” 

Jade snorted. “You’re lucky. I had four hours of pushing after thirty hours of labor in an unheated shack up in the Himalayan mountains with only the nastiest Anglo transplant midwife you ever saw for company.” 

“How the hell are you still alive?” I asked inelegantly, staring. 

“Oh, please, little sister, that I endured those hours is precisely why I am alive today,” said Jade. “You go through _that_ much hell and survive, slavering monsters and deranged lunatics suddenly seem like little cuddly kittens or the Easter Bunny.” 

I laughed, and when asked, gave the okay for the next inflow of visitors. 

Kaldur, as godfather, readily accepted his turn to hold Mary first, as I enjoyed hugs and greetings from the others. Jason brought those (amazing) enchiladas of his with him when he and Tim showed up, a gesture which made me literally sob with joy (I was exhausted and prone to overloaded emotions — tears over Mexican food seemed the only natural response.) I gleefully and tearfully dug into them. 

As Kaldur held the baby with an astonishing ease and comfort, he smiled with his wonted dignified warmth for a photograph with Zatanna — _the actual fairy godparents,_ I thought to myself, and had to smother a chuckle in a mouthful of mole sauce at what it might look like if Dick and I had opted with the attorney to entrust the baby to them in the event of some unthinkable tragedy. Kaldur and Zatanna, the Fairy Odd Couple. So much for withstanding my amusement — I started snickering uncontrollably over the idea of the two of them, hardly an item, shoved together to care for this infant in forcible domestic bliss. 

But as I watched Kaldur hand the baby to M’gann, who cooed and fussed tearfully over Mary, her own joy, fascination and immediate infatuation apparent on her beloved, well-known face, the decision regarding Mary’s guardians was fully vindicated — and clinched only more tightly when Conner accepted Mary from M’gann, his normally gruff, moody persona softening on the spot as he took her with an uncustomary gentleness, his entire mien shifting into one so calm and warm as to be almost irreconcilable from the Conner I knew. There was my old crush, I thought, gazing at him, he of the dark, brooding good looks and mysterious, volatile bad boy vibe, tenderly holding my baby with a softness that even the kindest angel might have envied. 

I knew also what the proscription as Mary’s guardians meant to Conner and M’gann in their own inability to have children together — a manifold mix of things, I was sure, good _and_ bad. I knew they were moved and thrilled to accept our request, but I couldn’t imagine that it didn’t _hurt_ them in some ways, too. It was, in my mind, the proffering of a great and wanted gift, only to have it held just out of reach. Still, there was no one I thought more up to the task — and although it was a thought that scarcely bore considering, given the situation at hand, it comforted me to know that Mary would be deeply loved and nurtured if anything truly final were to happen to me or to Dick. 

Barbara’s turn with the baby followed, and I watched my longtime friend with an affectionate amusement, by now chock full of Jason’s enchiladas and cuddling indolently against my mom’s arm. Babs was never one to get overly emotional about things, at least not openly — she was one to always keep a cool-headed practicality about her, and generally indulged in her feelings mostly in private or with a trusted extreme few. But she gushed unabashedly that day as she held Mary, unhindered in her expressions, not a one of them wontedly calculated or pragmatic. 

“So I know everyone’s been saying it,” said Babs, grinning at me. “But…” 

I readied myself for the inevitable _By golly, she looks like Dick!_

“…She has your mouth, Arty,” Barbara said. “Lucky girl.” 

I laughed, and could have kissed her for that. 

“Here, Uncle Jay,” Babs said after a time, holding the baby out to Jason, “think you’re ready to meet your niece? I can’t believe you haven’t held her yet. You deadbeat.” 

Jason’s eyes visibly widened. “Uh… I don’t know, Babs.” 

Babs gave him a Look. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” 

“I’m not what I’d call especially good with babies. Kids are fine, but infants…” He shook his head. 

“Oh, please,” she said, reaching over to position his arms with one hand. “It’s really not that hard, Jason.” 

“I just… she’s so… _small,”_ Jason fretted as Barbara somewhat unceremoniously plunked Mary in his massive arms. He gawped frantically at her. “Babs! _Why!_ Shit — I’m going to drop her — or smush her — or both. _Fuck._ Tim, _look_ at her! I didn’t even know humans _came_ in this size!” 

“She’s not that tiny, Jason, you’re just that big,” Tim cracked. 

“Rim shot,” Jason grumbled with some irritation. 

Tim just laughed, and held out his arms. “Here, you want me to take her?” 

“Yes,” Jason said, and readily forked the baby over even as just about everyone in the room with the sole exception of Bruce busted up at the display. 

“Tim, you’ve been keeping secrets,” I accused from my perch in the bed, watching as Tim settled the baby in his arms like a pro. “How the heck is it that you — an eighteen-year-old _dude_ — know your way around a baby? Did you have to go through one of those Baby Alive courses in school or something?” 

“Please tell me it’s not that you looked up the specs of the average baby before we came in here and committed those blueprints to memory,” Jason said, visibly relieved to have been divested of Mary, although he smiled as he gazed at her in Tim’s arms. 

Tim laughed. “Nothing like that, Jay, you can remain calm. I was actually my friend Stephanie’s birthing partner last year. Her boyfriend cut out on her early on, so I stepped up so she wouldn’t have to go through it alone.” 

I smiled, endeared both by this confession, and also by how grossly, utterly disgustingly _lovesick_ he was. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him and Jason together since they’d (finally) officialized things, but the syrupy glow of new love clung plainly to both of them, and if I said I didn’t feel completely charmed by it — well, it’d be a lie. Color me charmed. 

It occurred to me, though, even through the thick, muddled fog of intense fatigue that clouded my stunted thinking, that as interactions wore on and Mary to my fury underwent another round of hot potato with everyone in the room (I was _more_ than impatient to have her back by then), Bruce hadn’t even acknowledged Jason — not even so much as a nod in his direction. Jay occasionally prodded his foster dad to engage, but Bruce’s shoulders stiffened as though pulled back by invisible strings, and ice barriers that were damn near perceptible to the naked eye went instantly up like the Northern Wall. Tim and Alfred both appeared at times to attempt the occasional effort at mediation, both withdrawing in their endeavors after a repeated lack of success. Bruce wasn’t unkind, confrontational, or even _prickly,_ necessarily, with Jason — but there was a profound and clear sense of reservation on his end where his youngest son was concerned that day. 

I frowned, watching them. I knew that Bruce could be taciturn and unapproachable, sure — but he was never what I’d call _shut off_ from his boys. I hadn’t seen this level of reserve and distance even since Jason first returned and confirmed his existence as the Red Hood. I _did_ have a pretty strong feeling as to which game was afoot, but I also acknowledged that I could easily have been wrong — and in either case, it disquieted me a fair deal. If it wasn’t what I thought it was, I worried that whatever troubled Bruce and caused this apparent rift between him and Jason had something to do with some new, discomfiting development regarding Dick — something that neither of them was telling me, if so. 

I took Jason by his sleeve when he came within reach, and drew him down a little. 

“Hey,” I murmured. “Everything okay?” 

He inclined his head. “As far as I know. Why?” 

I glanced over at Bruce. “Just curious as to why your foster dad’s kind of treating you like an infectious disease over there.” 

“Oh,” Jason said, and wormed his lip. He curled his fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Look, Arty, you don’t need to worry about it right now, okay?” 

“Jason, come on,” I said. “I’m a big girl and I’m not stupid. If something’s up, I want to know about it, especially if it pertains to Dick.” 

He frowned. “Look, I’m fine with talking to you about it, but can we do it later? I wouldn’t exactly say it’s subject matter for all the ears in this room.” 

“Yeah, okay,” I told him, mollified. “We’ll talk when everyone’s cleared out.” 

It was dark by the time everyone said their see-you-soons and filtered out, and Jason and I found the opportunity to talk one-on-one. More teammates, Leaguers in their civilian identities, and friends had stopped in as the afternoon waned, and I was pleasantly surprised when I received a heartwarming, tearful visit from Rudy and Mary West. They were the last of the evening, full of apologies over their tardiness as they entered the room bearing gifts and flowers. I didn’t mind that it was getting late. It did me good to see them, and we chatted for a long time, comfortably into the night. 

Jason came back into the room after Mary and Rudy headed out, while I directed Zatanna, who staunchly refused to leave me alone in the hospital, to the commissary for ice cream. The cafeteria was a bit of a haul from my room, according to the hospital map my mother and I looked at, so I figured Jason and I would have some time to chew the rag before she got back. My mother was staying with Lian that night, as she’d agreed to do some time prior, something she upheld so as not to interrupt my sister’s plans. 

The light in the room was reduced to the lamplight and television, which hummed quietly a ways off. Mary nursed under a blanket, and I winced through the contractions that crunched my middle. I knew that breastfeeding led to uterine contractions just after childbirth, but I didn’t realize that they’d be so _painful_. I hid my discomfort the best I could, and focused on Jason. 

“So,” I said, keeping my voice low. “What’s going on? Is everything okay? Is _Dick_ okay?” 

“Oh, yeah, it’s nothing like that,” said Jason. 

There was a brief spell of silence, other than Mary’s little nursing sounds, as I waited for him to go on, having a good idea of what was coming. 

Instead, Jason remained quiet, and shifted uncomfortably, resolutely not looking in my direction. 

“Oh,” I said, resisting the impulse to smack my head (hello, Artemis!), realizing that the fact I was _breastfeeding_ under the thin blanket that only just hid the sight from him might have set him on edge. I chuckled. “Sorry. Look, we can talk another time if you’d rather.” 

“It’s okay,” he said, chuckling, too. “Girl’s gotta eat. I just won’t look.” 

I grinned. “Well, unlike Wally, I think Dick might actually forgive you if you had any unintentional Peeping Tom incidents.” I shifted my voice. “Dickieboy loose like that.” 

Jason’s chuckles morphed into a full-blown laugh. 

The atmosphere now effectively less discomfited, I prompted him, “So what’s up?” 

“Well,” he said, his voice lowering, “I’m sure you heard about the clown.” 

Ah. Thought so. Relieved that it wasn’t about something else awful happening to Dick, I nodded. 

“Was it you?” I asked gently. 

“Yeah,” Jason said. “I don’t think it’s all that secret.” 

“Meaning Bruce obviously knows.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And… I’m guessing it’s not as simple as he doesn’t approve or he’s caught in a moral quandary or whatever.” 

Jason ruminated, gazing at the shining floor of the hospital room. 

“It’s never that simple with him,” he said after a while. “I haven’t actually gotten to talk to him about it yet, for… well, kinda obvious reasons, but I’m not real sure talking to him will actually _do_ anything, so hell, maybe he and I just won’t talk. Anyway… I don’t really think he’s pissed or sitting on hard feelings or anything, and… I don’t even think he’s _disappointed._ I think in some ways what I did’s made him feel like he _failed_ somewhere.” 

“Failed in what way?” I asked. “Like failed to stop you, or failed to do something that might have prevented it from happening?” 

“Dunno. Maybe he feels like he should have taught me better, or at least in some way that _stuck_. Or like he did something _wrong_ by me somewhere back when that led me down the path I’m on, or fuck… maybe it’s less sanctimonious and condescending than all that, even. Maybe he feels like he should have just done it himself years ago. Or at least been more _permanent_ with that piece of shit. You know, avoided all this crap from the get-go. Thing is, though, Artemis…” He looked up for a moment, and sighed. “I don’t think it was ever for him to do. He’s got way more in common with the big man in blue than he realizes.” 

I half-smiled at that. “Yeah. And I think you and I can both agree that if Bruce ever went through with it, it would pretty much end everything he ever stood for.” I sighed, struggling with articulating my thoughts without giving some of my darker secrets away — secrets that, although I’d allowed Dick to glimpse them, I preferred to keep locked _way_ the hell up. “Here’s the thing, though, Jay… And maybe I’m totally wrong, here, but I think Bruce is aware of how it _feels —_ even without having done it himself. He’s _seen_ it enough, at least. And… Lives are always heavy burdens, no matter how much the people you take them from have it coming.” I looked up at the ceiling, soothed by the sensation of rhythmic, sleepy tugging as Mary nursed, despite the distress it caused in my abdomen. I turned my gaze to Jason. “Maybe, in the end, it’s actually as simple as Bruce just never wanting you to have to carry that, and yet there you are, always picking it up for the others who can’t — him included. And in this particular case… your picking it up hit him on a much more personal level.” 

There was quiet as that settled. 

“I’d thought about that,” Jason admitted, and looked over at me from where he sat. “It feels better to hear it from someone else, though. A _lot_ better.” 

I smiled. 

“I’m sorry to ask,” I murmured, “but… does Tim know?” 

Jason nodded. “Yeah. He knows.” 

“How does he feel about it?” 

There was a somewhat awkward stretch of silence. 

“He’s not… I don’t want to say he’s proud to know me over it or anything,” Jason said. “But… Artemis, he gets it. We talked for a really long time about it, after. And… even if he’s not all that, like… _grief-stricken_ over the clown or what the hell ever, he doesn’t _like_ it, either. But he understands.” 

I didn’t speak for a while, thinking. Mary finished up feeding, and I boosted her onto my shoulder to rub her back, encouraging her to burp, subconsciously reveling in the feeling of her weight on my arm. I leaned my cheek against the knitted hat that covered her head. 

I understood, too. 

And on levels far deeper than just those presented by the Joker. I didn’t merely understand Jason, superfluously grasping his headspace and thoughts and actions in some cursory way — rather, I empathized with him, _related_ to him, and in that moment, I felt a deep and powerful kinship with the man next to me, the man who was not only Dick’s brother, but every bit as much mine, as well. 

“Well… I get it, too, Jason,” I told him truthfully after a time. “I guess… I guess sometimes the weight of making that final choice feels like it might be less heavy than always carrying the knowledge that there’s a dangerous, hungry monster that lives in your closet. And it’s a monster that will never leave, always only a few feet away, waiting for the first opportunity to spring out and kill you or everyone you ever cared about.” 

“You thinking about your dad when you say that?” Jason asked. 

I knew I shouldn’t have been surprised at his display of canniness, but I was — even if the metaphor I’d presented wasn’t especially opaque. Taken aback, I nodded, unspeaking. 

Jason sat in the quiet for a moment. 

“Well, Artemis,” he said, “if you ever find yourself facing that choice, you won’t face any condemnation from me. Heck — if you want, I’ll do it for ya.” 

And as I held his gaze in the wake of those words, a sort of unspoken communion passing with an unexpected ease between us, I knew with a feeling of something like relief or exoneration that I would, indeed, never find condemnation from him. 

“You’d just better save some for me, bro,” I admonished, half-smiling. 

Zatanna came through the door with the ice cream in that moment, and the weight in the air abruptly dispersed. I sagged against the pillow behind me. Phew. Things had _really_ gotten heavy — and that damn fast. 

“Well, I’ll leave you guys to it,” said Jason. “You’re probably tired as hell at this point, anyway.” 

“Before you go, Jason,” I said as he stood, switching gears. 

He paused, and looked down at me. 

“You _sure_ you don’t want to hold her?” I asked with a goading smirk, indicating Mary. 

Jason snorted. “I’m outta here. Maybe when she gets a little bigger. See you around, Z.” 

“See ya,” said Zatanna, watching him as he passed by her. 

The door closed softly behind him as Zatanna stretched out comfortably next to me, her body warm and cozy against my own sore, drained form. I subtly loosed a breath, ready to just _rest_ and move on from thoughts of my father and murder and the greater spectrum of morality and how desperately I missed my partner, instead focusing on simple, immediate things — the comfort of my best friend beside me, the stupid, banal, childish joy of ice cream, and the soft weight of my new daughter guarded against my shoulder, as astonishingly natural as it was deliciously novel. 


	33. 8-4-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAAAAIIIIIII EVERYONE!!!!
> 
> I am back!! <3 ^_^
> 
> Yep, finished this darn thing finally (finally, pfffttt, took me way less time than I anticipated), and will be now posting and moving on to the next stage/work once the holidays are over! ^_^ (In December, CHRISTMAS BECOMES STRICTLY MY HOBBY!) XD #momlife :D
> 
> Thanks as always to Zoeleo for being her wonderful self and beta reading for me! <3 Not to mention just being an awesome human in general. <3
> 
> Much love and happy reading, y'all! ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 33**

_August 4, 2019_

_Bruce_

A black-tie charity event that I found myself invited to seemed hardly the place to incite a confrontation with Lex Luthor. 

However, I’d determined even before I’d suited up for the event that it was at this venue that Lex and I would _have words._ Subtle words, perhaps, but _words._ With Clark to back me if things went sour, it was as good a time as any. 

The fact was, I’d gone into my son’s room in the ICU knowing damn well that Luthor was the mastermind behind the catastrophic event that landed him paralyzed in that bed, who had put Sportsmaster up to the task of removing Dick from the growing list of threats to the realm he lorded over — and I had reasonable, if not definitive or forensic, proof now. 

I had, as the Batman, dropped in on a guard named Harrington Koontz (and yes, I acknowledge the man’s misfortune in being named as such, and equally acknowledge just how fitting a name it was for the man in question — Dick, Jason, and even serious, studious Tim would have had a veritable field day with unfortunate Harry Koontz) on the streets outside his home in Belle Reve Parish on the night of July the twenty-third. 

This little interview with the Belle Reve guard followed something of an interrogation with Lawrence Crock. I entered Belle Reve intending and prepared to _maneuver_ — not to exact desperately wanted vengeance. As long as I held myself in check, I knew I would leave with at least _something_ I could work with. Sportsmaster was a wily old con, to be sure — but he was about as straightforward as they came, blunt and barefaced, never one to so much as glance beneath the surface or consider reading between the lines. He would goad — and I would probe. 

“Well, if it ain’t Batshit,” he said as I approached the door to his cell in solitary. Gaining access to the hole hadn’t been difficult. Stealth and my abundant tools saw the job done with remarkable efficiency. “Finally joining the ranks in Belle Reve where ya damn well belong?” 

“July thirteenth,” I said, closing the cell door behind me. Every sinew was springloaded and pleading me to unleash all of the storming, white-hot power my body possessed upon Sportsmaster — Dick’s attacker. I restrained myself with a positively colossal effort — but _felt_ the molten rage as it churned and blistered in my gut, a magmic bellyful of pure, blazing fury, begging to be permitted to extravasate, a fully active volcano. “Where were you?” 

“You’re lookin’ at it, Batshit. I’m doomed to the hole for a whole ’nother week.” 

“You’re sprightly for an active man condemned to solitary for over a month,” I stated. 

“Am I?” said Crock. “What makes you think I don’t like the hole? Least I don’t have fuckheads who don’t know when to shut the hell up yammering at me.” He smirked. “Kinda like right now.” 

“Cut the shit, Crock,” I snapped. “July thirteenth. You sure as hell weren’t here. Where were you?” 

“Why do you care?” he said languidly. 

“Reasons,” I stated. “Talk.” 

“You gonna play bad Leaguer if I don’t tell you what you wanna hear?” Crock asked, sliding off of the surface of the bed, his powerful shoulders rippling under the thin white cotton of the tee he wore as he stood. “Come on, kid. Make my day. I’ve been at this gig since your sanctimonious ass was in diapers.” 

_Oh, I would_ love _to, you son of a bitch,_ I thought with a blast of loathing. _Rip your spine right out of your back, yank your fingers from their sockets, take that knee and tear it away from your leg._

I remained impassive. 

“Age doesn’t denote skill,” I said. “Don’t forget who it was that landed you here.” 

“Yeah,” Crock said. “Goddamn fuckface Nightwing. He got lucky — and then he got everything he deserved.” 

I inclined my head. _Go on…_ “And what exactly did he get, Crock?” 

“Don’t play dumb, Batshit,” said Crock. “I know the clown crippled the fuck out of him with a sawed-off shotgun and then lit his ass on fire. He’s dying now, isn’t he?” 

I didn’t shift my posture, even if his words plunged like spears into my heart, one after another, bringing the hateful, smelted lava in my gut to my gullet in a pyretic surge. 

“Care to tell me how you were made aware of those details?” I said, the words searing hot on my tongue even as my voice remained icy and dead, placid calm. “Details that weren’t given to the public… or even to the whole of the League?” 

“Word travels. The Joker’s a gloryhound. Maybe he felt like telling me all about it himself just last night.” 

“The Joker’s dead,” I stated. “As of two nights ago. Comatose as of two before that.” 

And there it was. A flicker of surprise — brief, hardly a nanosecond in its breadth. But _there_ to my trained eye. Apparently, word didn’t travel effectively to the hole. 

“So tell me, Crock. How did you hear about it from the Joker himself just last night — when he’s been dead for two days and comatose for two before that?” I asked. 

“I said _maybe_ he told me,” Crock said, his demeanor shifting immediately to defensive and hostile. The change was subtle by Sportsmaster’s normally direct standards, occurring beneath his otherwise unmoving facade, but trained to mark the signs, I took note. 

“Or maybe you were involved.” 

“You think I was involved, Batshit?” he said. “Prove it.” 

I gave him a mirthless half-smile devoid of any warmth. 

He sneered. I reveled at the sight of his toothless gums. 

“All the guards here will tell you I’ve been in the hole this entire time,” he growled. 

“I’m sure the ruse that you’ve been here this whole time was simple enough to set up and maintain, Crock,” I told him. “Given your connections.” 

“And just what are my connections?” 

“What was that about you said about playing dumb?” I said. “You’re affiliated with none other than the Secretary General of the United Nations himself, from what I hear.” 

“Big talk,” said Crock. “You must think I’m rich as Bruce Wayne by now, working for Lex fuckin’ Luthor.” 

“Maybe you are. And maybe you’re set to come into a fortune when you’re released from Belle Reve — something I’m _sure_ Luthor can facilitate. With that in mind, sneaking out of here to go perform a job for him and then slipping back in — child’s play.” 

He took a step toward me, and although well over the age of sixty by then, he was still broad-shouldered and plenty strong — and he banked on his impressive size and brute strength in all situations. He peacocked naturally, as such — a move I was sure would be effective against most quarries. It hadn’t cowed Dick, however — and sure as hell didn’t cow me. 

Unlucky for him, I was every bit as powerfully built — and if I dared say it, likely _stronger._ More technically skilled than the hack-and-bash brute in front of me. And while Crock was possessed of an impressive cunning, it was animalistic at its core, an effective, banal survivalism that had kept him alive and well in his line of work. But a peak human intellect, imaginative and calculating, against Crock’s bestial, here-centered wits in a brawl — well, that could quite comfortably end the tussle before he even knew what befell him. _If_ his opponent could think like he did, and maneuver accordingly. 

I fantasized about and readily welcomed the opportunity to go hand-to-hand with Lawrence Crock, Dick’s attacker, and in fact, had _intended_ to initially — but given how the confrontation with the Joker had transpired in spite of myself, I knew that if I so much as _started_ on Sportsmaster, he’d meet an equivalent or worse end even than the Joker had. I couldn’t allow that to happen — not then, and not ever. And as it stood, I was _supposed_ to be on leave — if my affiliates were to catch me there, questioning Sportsmaster in Belle Reve, I would have quite a lot to answer to. But there were simply too many loose ends for me to trust the League to tie together — I had to work on my own time and without help, and without attracting undue attention. Disallowing a cooler head to prevail within that damp, tiled cell inside the prison would spell the end of my tenure not only with the League, but as the Batman — and even as a free man. 

If it came to blows with Sportsmaster, I would leave him in _pieces._ With my bare hands. 

I inhaled, cooling the blaze in my abdominals. I had gotten what I had come for — or at least, I had gotten _enough_. Crock had information he shouldn’t have had — _details,_ even. That bastard was every bit as responsible for the attack on Dick as the Joker, who had not once implicated Sportsmaster by name or in specific. But even for that, I had known as much, easily, and beyond any doubt. And now — it was clinched. I had all the _confirmation_ I needed to move forward without qualms. And given the internal fire that I fought tooth-and-nail against in that moment, it was time to leave before the flames were fanned into a conflagration that would destroy us both. 

I gritted my teeth and exhaled, holding his gaze — not backing down, but not taking the bait, either. 

“No fisticuffs?” said Crock when I didn’t engage. “Disappointing. And Ra’s spoke so highly of you.” 

I didn’t exhibit a flicker of response, even as the volcanic build-up in my middle stoked itself into a renewed, sun-bright blaze. 

“Don’t think this ends here, Sportsmaster,” I said, my voice as cold as my gut and chest were hot. “Just so we’re clear, should you ever find yourself on the outside, our next meeting won’t unfold so amicably. Particularly if you come within so much as a hundred miles of Nightwing.” 

“Puss-cake,” he jeered. 

Opting not to reply to that, I swept out of the cell. 

Back to business. I spent the next hour or so looking into what guards were on duty between the nights of July the fifth through the fifteenth — and my findings led me to Harrington Koontz. Already in Belle Reve Parish, I headed out to physically locate him, a task that was simple enough. 

I found him on the sidewalk, traipsing to his home in the Parish’s downtown province, and took him by surprise when I detached from the shadows to step out in front of him. Just the sight of the Batman materializing from the darkness, cowl whipping in the thick, humid wind, shoulders set and posture ready, was enough to send Koontz, venerated prison guard at the penitentiary housing the worst and most powerful of villains, straight onto the seat of his pants with a terrified squawk. 

“Sportsmaster,” I said. “Where was he on the night of July thirteenth?” 

All of the blood drained from his face. 

“I swear — I mean, I don’t — I mean, I _didn’t_ —” he sputtered as he scooted away over the concrete at an impressive rate of speed. “Please, just — _I don’t know anything.”_

“You work with hardened felons that are either superhuman or notoriously brutal,” I said, not bothering to stall his progress. “Get up.” 

He stood, his face going from a sallow, gluey white to a bilious green and back to white again under the streetlamp. “Yeah, I work with hardened criminals that have a tendency to wind up where they are because of _you,”_ he said. “And, I gotta level with you, I’m not exactly the most upstanding citizen —” 

I didn’t have time for his yammering. I didn’t have what I’d call _patience,_ either. I yanked Koontz to me by a fistful of his shirt. 

“You certainly aren’t,” I said. “I’ve read your files — _all_ of your files. No one will be too chuffed to hear you staggered home with thirty broken bones and none of your teeth.” 

Koontz struggled and fought. I dropped him, and swiped a foot across his ankles when he turned to run. I snatched him by a handful of his collar, twisted his arm behind his back, and brought him to the ground. 

Dick was comatose, crippled, dangling even then somewhere between this world and the next, and God only _knew_ the terrible specifics of the unimaginable hell he’d endured up until the last blow, when the blazing fire consumed his surroundings, threatening to swallow his helpless, emasculated body as it feasted on what was once a safe place, a home for him. I wasn’t inclined to mercy. 

“Let go of me, you fucker, or I’ll report you to the League!” Koontz howled into the concrete underneath his face. “You know you’re just as bad as the fuckers you pen up —” 

“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll consider it,” I said, lifting his head, bracing his face over the pavement. “Talk.” I moved as if to slam his head down. 

He got the point, and obediently started talking, as, frankly, I assumed he would. Non-meta might-have-been cons tended to be easy marks. 

“Look. I got paid off, okay, fucknuts? Belle Reve pays _shit —”_

“I’ll file a complaint with the board for you,” I said. “Who paid you off?” 

Silence. I thrust his face into the sidewalk. Not so hard that it would leave much of a mark, but enough that it would _hurt_. I pulled his arm up harder behind his back, higher and tighter, until he began to squall. 

“Christ, man, fine, just fucking _stop!”_ he screeched. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, you just _can’t_ let it get back to Luthor you heard it from me — that guy will _kill_ me. As in actually kill me, have me offed in some horrible way like he tried with that Grayson kid. I work with hardened metahuman felons, yeah — but _none_ of ’em are scarier than Luthor. Trust me on that shit, all right? You’ll do yourself a favor to stay out of his crosshairs, too.” 

Something like vindication stole through me, although it was discolored with overtones of sick affirmation. Expectation and foreknowledge cannot always prevent dismay. 

As it stood, it was merely verbal confirmation of what I already knew, much like my meeting with Crock. It _was_ Luthor. Sportsmaster was merely a pawn on the board — not the hand that moved the pieces. 

“This — _all_ of it — stays between us,” I said, not at all kindly, and not releasing Koontz. “Keep talking. What did Luthor want from you?” 

“He wanted me to let him into Belle Reve to meet with Crock in secret. They talked about Nightwing. Pretty surprised to hear that guy’s the Wayne beneficiary — figured richies like him would be wimps. Anyway, Luthor said something about immortality and Nightwing being a problem, and could Crock deal with it for him since he was already pissed at the kid for punching his lights out and landing him in the clink. Then I let Crock out for a few days while some non-human guy pretended to be Crock while he was gone, then made the swap when it was all done with. I got fifty grand for it and asked to quit. I didn’t ask questions, I just took the money and did as I was told.” 

_Immortality,_ I noted. _Not just a cure. Immortality._

That certainly shifted things into a higher gear. 

“Who posed as Crock?” I asked, although I had a feeling. 

“I don’t know, some Martian, I think,” said Koontz. “Guy scared the hell out of me, creepier than any inmate I ever came across. I didn’t exactly stick around to make pals or play Poker.” 

I released Koontz, and rose. Everything I needed, I had. Even as he sputtered in confusion, I left him there on the sidewalk. 

Now to confront Luthor. Once that was over, it was time to seek forensics. 

It seemed a sign from some otherworldly dimension when, after I returned to the Batcave to shower and unsuit, I entered the manor and found Alfred in the kitchen, where he extended a sheaf of clearly expensive stationery to me across the marble island, a look on his face that was all at once furious and determined. 

I took the swatch of paper from him, and unfolded it. 

_Please join the Lex-Corp Charity Foundation_

_for our_

_TWENTIETH ANNUAL CHARITY GALA BLACK TIE EVENT_

_Sunday, August the Fourth, 2019_

_The Promenade at Centennial Park_

_7:00pm - 12:30am_

_Dinner_

_Entertainment_

_Silent and Live Auctions_

_$375 per Person_

_$5,000 Table Sponsorship for Ten Guests_

_Please RSVP to Kitty at (877) 256 - 9085 by July the Twenty-Fifth_

_For More Information or To Purchase Tickets Online:_

_Visit www.lex-corp.foundation.org/registration_

And beneath, a handwritten scrawl in a penmanship I recognized to be Luthor’s own: 

_Mr. Wayne,_

_Please come._

_Kind regards,_

_Lex_

I gritted my teeth. Come I would — proverbial sword sharpened, dueling pistols loaded. But not without some form of insurance, even if it portended giving myself and my personal mission away. 

I rang Clark. 

And there we were, some days later, dressed to the nines, walking the city blocks from the parked Rolls to go mingle with Metropolis’ upper crust in Centennial Park — and confront Luthor. 

“You sure this is how you want to go about doing things?” he asked. “There are subtler ways you could approach him, you know.” 

“I’m aware, Clark,” I said. “But he specifically requested that _I_ come tonight — clearly, there’s a game afoot, and the most efficient way to bring it to light is to play along for now.” 

“And just how exactly are you planning on doing that? Playing along with Lex can get deadly pretty fast.” 

“Agreed. For all I know, the game that’s afoot is that Lex is planning on poisoning me this evening,” I said wryly. 

“So am I supposed to drink your champagne for you and tell you if it’s drugged or poisoned?” he gibbed. 

“Not exactly,” I said. “You’re here to provide back-up or a distraction if I happen to need one, the other, or both. We’ll just have to see what it is he’s after, inviting me here in specific.” 

“And here I bring up that you’re supposed to be on leave,” said Clark. 

“And per the norm, here you state the obvious,” I returned. 

He just chuckled. 

“You know, the press might be interested in why ladies’ man Brucie Wayne opted to bring a gentleman to a black tie charity gala instead of his standard supermodel of the day,” Clark remarked. “Something we didn’t exactly plan for when you brought this up the other night. You ready to handle _that_ barrage of questions?” 

“We can approach that one easily enough,” I said. “You’re press, don’t forget, and _known_ to this city. You can be covering this gala and WE’s contributions to the Lex-Corp Charity Foundation for your personal blog.” I paused, and sighed. “Truthfully, Clark, questions about _anything_ other than Dick would be welcome at this point.” 

Clark sobered. “At least it ought to welcome questions that aren’t about Dick. I understand you’ve been bombarded.” 

My jaw clenched. I nodded. 

“Not to bombard you, Bruce, but is there any news since your last report?” 

I steeled myself as my words rolled robotically off my tongue. 

“He might make it, he might not. And by make it, they mean he might remain in the persistent vegetative state he’s in for God knows how many years.” 

“Persistent vegetative is an improvement over a deep coma, though, last I heard,” Clark said. “That’s a decent sign, right?” 

I shook my head. “It’s progress in theory. Essentially… it’s a sign that the lights are on and no one’s home. M’gann has attempted gentle probing, and she can’t even _find_ his consciousness. The closest she came to it was something she described as an extremely fragmented and deeply buried dream, abstract at best.” I sighed. “Which… isn’t what I’d call heartening.” 

“Would she ever be able to piece his consciousness together? Or if it’s intact, and she’s ever able to find it, can she draw him out?” 

I shook my head. “Doesn’t work that way, Clark. She’s only attempting to determine if _Dick_ is still in there somewhere. Anything deeper, such as an attempt to psychically grasp his consciousness and draw it to the fore, and she could make his condition a lot worse. The human mind is not unlike blown glass, J’onn said — apt to shatter under too much strain. And when the brain has endured damage up to a certain threshold, that same mind, its consciousness, personality, awareness… it all often flushes down the tubes.” 

“Is there such a thing as a… Martian mind-healer?” 

“M’gann said no,” I sighed. “It’s one thing to piece a mind together after a psychic attack. It’s quite another when the damage is to the physicals of what the mind is connected to. You can rearrange furniture inside a house — but when the house is destroyed, rearranging the furniture is no longer possible.” 

Clark was morosely quiet for a moment. 

“So what next?” he asked eventually. 

“Well, hearing the familiar voices of loved ones, even if on an unconscious level, increases oxygen levels in the brain, which in turn promotes healing,” I said. “So… The next step is to just speak to him every day. Simple as that. Artemis has already been at it every afternoon, often with the baby.” 

Clark smiled, a little less somber. “Well, that’s good. Dick is lucky.” 

I nodded. “Artemis has been steadfast.” 

“She has. So have you.” 

I grew uncomfortable, but Clark spared me the difficulty of replying when he continued talking. 

“You know, Lois and I dropped in on Artemis at the house last Thursday to see the baby — and I’ve got to say. Mary’s beautiful, Bruce.” 

I smiled for the first time in what seemed decades. Thoughts of my granddaughter had that effect. It seemed strange, that something so simple and basically _human_ as the weight of an infant in my arms could be so comforting, but I couldn’t deny that time spent with Mary provided me a balm for many, many wounds. Looking down at her face, seeing so much of Dick in her features, I felt an unbreakable connection to my son that alleviated whatever aches I experienced and only deepened my existing and astonishing love for the girl. 

“Yes, she is,” I agreed shamelessly. 

“So have _you_ been talking to Dick?” asked Clark. 

We approached Centennial Park, lit with fairy lights for the occasion, thrumming with the hum of a lively string quartet, and dotted with tables sporting colorful floral arrangements and glittering place settings. I turned to my unlikely “date” for the evening. 

“I have,” I told him, “and no, it’s not easy, and no, it’s not something I want to discuss, before you ask.” I turned, about to cut a path toward the arched trellis that marked the entryway to the gala. “I don’t want to discuss Jason, either.” 

“Bruce,” Clark said, taking my arm as the obnoxiously benevolent tone that was his signature Superman pitch entered his voice, “I get that, but listen — on that subject, none of us is going to pursue him for what he did. You are aware of that, right? It’s written down as something to investigate, sure — but trust me, no one’s exactly leapt at the assignment. If it even _was_ him.” 

“Assuming that it was, it’s not Jason who ought to be pursued,” I said flatly. “It’s me.” 

“Is that why you can’t talk to him?” 

I eyed him. “Thin ice, Clark. _Very_ thin ice.” 

“All right,” he said placatingly. “Listen, though. Jason made his choice on his own and I think he’s past any resentments or holding you to any expectations.” 

I was silent. 

It was something that tilled a chill, fetid earth of dull, cold ache within me, that the burden I should have spared my son I had, in fact, _handed_ to him. And every time I saw Jason now, that I took in the sight of the unwarranted forgiveness in his eyes, the unexpected empathy and understanding — his face became that of my failures, my wrongdoings. That I couldn’t engage with Jason was not due to being unable to face my shortcomings. It was the sense that I was no longer deserving of his acceptance, that I could not stand in the same room with the weight of my sins between the both of us. 

Sitting with Dick made me feel the same. I had failed to protect him, even as I had striven to do so. Oh, I _thought_ that what I was doing was protecting him, safeguarding him — but I had, in truth, handed him this new burden, just as I had handed Jason’s to him. 

I had suspected Lex’s knowledge of our civilian identities sometime before, and had begun looking into the matter whenever the opportunity to do so presented itself. I had no desire to alarm Dick until I had some _proof_ of Lex’s awareness, something physical and undeniable. My search turned up what appeared to be a database of vigilantes and their profiles that Luthor had compiled, but it would take time to break the implementation of the drive’s encryption. I worked toward dismantling the implementation, but with other pressing matters at hand, the division of my attention left the endeavor thus far unsuccessful. I was not about to hand the task to Tim or to Barbara, for the same reasons I didn’t bequeath it to Dick. 

But if I had, would he have operated with greater care, or at the least from an angle that would have circumvented what ultimately befell him? Or would it have mattered not at all? Was Luthor indisputably on top in _all_ versions of this scenario? 

There was no telling, and no point in poring over the _what-ifs_. The only thing left to do was to bring Luthor down — _remove_ him from the top on which he unjustly found himself. However long that took, and whatever it required. 

The temptation to disembowel him as I wished to Sportsmaster was somehow less — the hard fact was that Luthor was no stranger to physical suffering, precisely what spawned this entire mess in the first place, and such an upfront approach to mete out justice would be, in a word, ineffective. 

I had other plans for Luthor — plans more far-reaching than just splitting his bald pate under my fist. 

I shifted my shoulders, allowing the tuxedo jacket to settle more comfortably across my traps and arms. 

“Time to work, Clark,” I said in response to his heavy words. “Let’s move.” 

He nodded, and we entered the gala. 

******* 

It was close to midnight when I at last found an appropriate moment to lure Lex away from the crowds, dissipating under the lateness of the hour. He stood with his supposed assistant — a “woman” whom I knew, in fact, to be a powerful bio-android in tow, brazenly discussing the potentials for mergers between Lex-Corp and Wayne Enterprises. 

“Satan will be lacing up his ice skates or my body will be stiff and cold before there will be a merger between our companies,” I announced with an affected grin, incorporating a faux-drunken slur into my voice. I held out my champagne glass. “Cheers to remaining cordial competitors!” 

“Come now, Brucie, Miss Grant asked the question,” Lex said lightly. “I’m merely answering in hypotheticals. Perhaps someday you and I can discuss the matter in greater detail.” 

“Whyever not now?” I said. “The topic is on the table, we might as well get on with it.” 

“I believe we shall discuss many things while the night is yet young and the gala comes to a close,” he said. “What say you and I nip off somewhere more private?” 

There was a fascinated _ooohhhh_ from the group around us. 

“Well, then excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” I said jauntily. “I’d best follow the fair prince before my coach transforms back into a pumpkin.” 

I passed my champagne glass off to an attendant, fell into step beside Lex to forcibly start us moving off from the party, and took note of Clark’s location, even as he did the same with mine from where he stood. 

“This isn’t especially subtle,” Lex remarked to me as we disembarked from the confines of the park to walk the short stretch of sidewalk to the veneer of his Lex-Corp building. Clark tailed us subtly, motioning only when I surreptitiously looked for him, and then disappearing again. 

“Are you concerned that people will talk to see us like this?” 

“Hardly,” said Lex, entering the building, stepping aside to allow me to follow him. He flipped on the lights, and sat at his desk. “They’ll assume we’re discussing the hot topic of this hypothetical merger. Which, I assume, will never happen for as long as you draw breath, in which case I will be forced to pry your company from your fingers with a crowbar.” 

I gave him a look that ought to have disintegrated him. 

He gave me an empty smile, and gestured. “Why don’t you have a seat, Bruce? May as well keep what is sure to be a discomfiting discussion as physically comfortable as possible.” 

“Given that my son is in a coma and as such I’m already uncomfortable in every way possible,” I told him, “I would rather stand.” 

“Very well.” He leaned forward, and rested his elbows on the surface of the desk. “And now we come to why I asked you in specific to come this evening. I am immensely sorry to hear about what happened to Dick, Bruce. A good kid, your son. Smart, skilled. It’s truly unfortunate.” 

“Is that what you call it?” I said. “Unfortunate?” My voice lowered to a growl. “You know damn well I’m onto you, Luthor. You know who I am. We’re past this, aren’t we?” 

He gave me an icy, inscrutable look, something like satisfaction flickering at its corners. 

“Indeed we are,” Lex said matter-of-factly, “and for what very little it’s worth, I would like to offer something of an apology while we are on the subject. The plans… did _not_ go off how they were intended.” 

“And how _did_ you intend them to go off?” I snarled, barreling past his own careful wording. “Elucidate. I fail to see how there is even one other end you sought in this equation. My son, the same person tasked with combing your potentially incriminating machines, is in a persistent vegetative state and if he ever regains wakefulness, he might not have even an iota of cognition. Your machines vanished, clearing you of any imminent danger. His apartment burned to the ground, taking any other evidence with it. What difference does any of it make to you?” 

Lex sighed. “Well. I suppose there’s no sense in maintaining my innocence to you, since you seem confident in having figured everything out.” 

“I am,” I stated. 

“Oh. Well, in _that_ case,” said Luthor, arching a brow, and then sobering. “Bruce, at least believe me when I tell you that I’ve never regarded your son as anything other than a complete innocent in the unfortunate situation he found himself bound up in. Surely, however, you understand in _some_ way that what happened to him was hardly personal. He was a _problem,_ you see, that needed to be rectified.” 

“That problem was _my son,”_ I hissed. “And you did not have this _problem_ rectified — you had the boy devastated and humiliated and tortured. It sure as hell _seems_ like it was personal.” 

“I will concede that for the executioner, it _was_ personal,” said Lex. “We all have our missions, Bruce.” 

“Do we?” 

“Yes. I, for one, have worked long and hard for what I have accomplished — unlike you, I did not start from riches. I started from poverty and squalor. And I clawed my way out of it — something someone like you could hardly hope to understand. I _built_ everything I stand on because I had a vision of a world infinitely different from the one in which we live.” He paused. “And you, of _all_ people, should know what it means to sacrifice everything for the sake of your great mission. That my own mission differs from yours, well, there’s not much to be done for that.” 

“You didn’t have to have him killed,” I said. “Especially by some murdering psychopath out for his blood.” 

“Who said anything about having your son killed?” said Lex. “He isn’t dead, Bruce. And I certainly haven’t spoken a word to that effect — I even offered genuine condolences.” 

“You did,” I agreed. “You’ve been very careful. So careful, in fact, that I feel compelled to commend you. But whether or not you’ve guarded your words to a foolproof efficacy and thus failed to implicate yourself in what happened to my son on the occasion I’m wearing a wire — I know the truth. And you mark my words, Luthor.” My shoulders squared subtly beneath the tuxedo jacket. “I will _destroy_ you.” 

Mercy stepped toward me, angling blithely around the mahogany desk. 

“Mercy,” said Lex, rising. 

Just then, the comm piece in my ear, tiny, undetectable, and inaudible to external listeners, whispered with the hum of Superman’s voice. 

“Bats, we’ve got to go, and _now,”_ said Clark. “I’ve been listening in, but the League just got a distress call from Artemis. Sportsmaster was not only released a hell of a lot earlier than anticipated from Belle Reve, but the first place he went after they let him free was _Gotham._ Artemis’ house.” 

_Oh, Christ — I should have done it, I should have torn him in half when I had the chance —_

And then, in a powerful, damaging flurry of bionic limbs, that thought dispersed spontaneously as I abruptly found myself engaged with Mercy, deployed now to _kill me_ — the last standing threat to all of Luthor’s plans. 

“You had Sportsmaster released and now he’s after his daughter!” I bellowed in stark fury as my body rose to the fight, ducking out of the way of a swipe of her hand, the seams of the tux tearing loudly. “Artemis has _nothing_ to do with this now —” 

“Just as what her father chooses to do with his newfound freedom after his rightful release from Belle Reve, which a close friend of mine was happy to facilitate all of his own accord, has nothing to do with me,” Luthor said. “I’ll ask you one thing before you rabbit off on your noble fool’s errand — what was it you just said to me a moment ago?” 

Mercy struck my jaw with a roundhouse kick so swiftly executed that my eyes couldn’t track the movement, and the enhanced force of the blow hurled me unceremoniously into the flat surface of the office door. I righted myself, my eyes immediately filled by the sight of her arm as it aimed itself directly at my forehead. Her fist parted gruesomely, its pieces peeling away and folding back to reveal the gleaming silver of manufactured adamant beneath, the glaring red dot of the laser targeting system shearing into my sight. I ducked and rolled, the spray of bullets mostly missing me, but one stray tearing through the material of my tux and skinning the flesh of my shoulder. 

“You threatened me, Bruce Wayne,” said Lex, his voice loaded with double meaning. “I cannot help but fear for my life. And your behavior was so erratic beforehand — the horror of what happened to your son must be deeply, deeply distressing to you.” 

I blocked a strike from Mercy, then drove the heel of my hand into the enforced metal of her chest, hurling all of my weight into the strike. She was nudged back maybe a foot at the most, her mechanical body preposterously heavy with its adamantine skeleton and armoring. A gala for the Lex-Corp Foundation meant massive security — which meant precious few self-defense tools actually on my person. Battling Mercy, and potentially Luthor as well, would require time that I did not have. 

_I can’t be here —_ have _to get to Gotham —_

And I may have been forced to battle Mercy long into the night, leaving Artemis and my granddaughter to an unknown fate at the hands of one of the most brutal cons I’d encountered in my impressive experience, if not for the at once blessed and familiar flash of red and blue that burst through the door and snatched me into the air with such force I ended up with the most profound case of whiplash I’d ever endured. 


	34. 8-4-19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, all... <3
> 
> Second to last chapter in this installment... AHHHHHHH!! XD I'm dropping it early because I know the last one was a total cliffhanger (which is such a jerk thing to do) annnnnd because it's finished and I'm feeling ready for this to be officially complete, as in posted on the Internet complete. XD <3
> 
> All my thanks and love to Zoeleo for beta reading for me and tolerating my meltdowns (you, dear, are a blessing) and same to my beloved BFF for helping with the necessary chapter overhaul. <3
> 
> Hope all's well and happy reading! Much love! ^_^ <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 34**

_August 4, 2019_

_Artemis_

I opened the drawer to the changing table, and paused. 

“Well, shit,” I sighed. 

How was it possible to run out of _diaper wipes_ so damn fast? It seemed to defy every natural law of consumption, the speed at which I just blew through them. Granted, I seemed content to use the things as the odd cleaning tool on occasion, so _that_ probably (definitely) didn’t help my cause. 

“Well, Mare,” I said, “looks like you’re going to have to hang out with Grandma for a bit. At least she’s still up.” 

The baby shifted her limbs a little in response as I tacked her diaper shut, feeling like a terrible mother dumping baby powder all over my daughter’s still wet bottom, but nothing for it. I’d been so _stretched_ lately that I couldn’t even seem to perform the simple task of checking for wipes _before_ it came time to consider trying to get Mary to sleep for the night. 

“At least you didn’t crap,” I told her. She gurgled a bit. 

I repositioned her sleeper, and leaned against the corner of the changing table, just gazing at my baby, completely rapt. 

She was such a pretty thing, with the soft, cloudy tufts of dark hair, the enormous eyes that were still a slate gray, her little miniature version of Dick’s nose, her cherub lips. Of course, I figured, warming all the way through as though I were stuck in a big ray of sunshine when I stroked her fuzzy hair, she could look like some misshapen version of Dumbo just by the vast misfortune of being plain ugly, and I’d _still_ feel the sun rose and set by her. 

She balled up one incredibly wee fist and roved it through the air, then looked over at the window as the headlights of a passing car outside beamed through. 

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I was always a smiling moron where that kid was concerned. I watched her a little longer, just marveling over her for a series of cozy moments in the warm, comfy confines of her nursery, then, gathering her and my phone up to get ready to leave, I one-hand texted my sister. 

_So after you had Lian did you lose a shit load of time just STARING?_ I sent. 

A moment later, my phone buzzed. 

_Oh, hours,_ I read, and snorted. 

_Glad I’m not alone,_ I replied, and grinned. Every day at that point I lost absurd amounts of time just _staring_ at Mary, awing over her little hands and feet, her beautiful eyes, her round, pudgy tummy, her adorable cheeks. 

I found my mom in the living room, where she sat watching reruns of _Breaking Bad,_ working on some temari stitching with a blanket and Peach stretched across her lap. Brucely lay curled up by her chair, his head on his paws. 

“Still not asleep?” she asked, smiling as I handed Mary to her. 

“We,” I announced morosely, “are out of wipes.” 

Mom laughed. “Oh, no. Those do go like —” She frowned a moment. “Oh, hotcakes, that’s it.” 

“Mom, how long have you been in the States?” I laughed. 

“Not long enough to commit every American idiom to memory,” she chuffed lightly. 

I smiled. “I’m going to head out and grab some wipes real quick. That okay?” 

My mom nodded. “Of course. She can watch some highly educational material about drugs and cartels with Grandma for a little while.” 

“You’re not like a regular grandma,” I joked. 

“I’m a _cool_ grandma,” she chuckled, knowing the modified quote I commonly defaulted to and completing it. 

I laughed as I picked up my keys from the end table, then kissed both Mary, who by then was soothing and settling with a pacifier, and my mom on the cheeks before heading out into the muggy night. 

Once I parked in the lot of the all-night drugstore, the fatigue of the last week or so really caught up with me, and I yawned absolutely spectacularly, my eyes at once gone sandy and heavy. I could have comfortably caught a nap — preferably an eight-hours-long one — with my shoulders hunched and my forehead braced against the steering wheel, but I didn’t want to leave my mom holding the bag (or baby) for too long, so I forced myself to do something of a zombie shamble with my still-weak legs into the confines of the grossly overlit interior of the Giant Eagle. 

I swore a little under my breath when I felt the tell-tale prickling feeling in my artillery shells (sorry, boobs) — the pins-and-needles wash of tingling and pressure that heralded the arrival of that life-giving compound known to the layman as _milk_ within my exceptionally huge, uncomfortable breasts. I was really rethinking the desire for bigger mammaries at that point. I winced a little as the stubbornly (and agonizingly) clogged duct in my left lit up like a firecracker, aching hotly and densely in the spot near my armpit. I picked out a heat compress while I was at the store on a Hail Mary prayer that it would help, and headed out the door to make my way home. 

I was pretty much cashed the hell out from there, but had to remind myself _not_ to chase the first sign of trouble while I drove home. Ugh, I _wanted_ to, though, God knew — I was _dying_ for a little action, for some sense that I was still _myself_ in spite of the monumental changes that had sprung up in my life, that Tigress hadn’t gone into retirement just because she’d found herself down a partner-in-not-crime and popped out a cub. However, that night was not the night to go looking for trouble, or even for hoping that trouble would find me. 

Truth was, I was a freaking trainwreck, whether I liked to admit it or not. All the horrid _emotional_ turmoil of the last weeks aside (and trust me, that shit came in oodles), just _physically_ my body was like a presidentially declared disaster area. No need to get into the (literally) gory details — but suffice it to say that _everything hurt._ Tearing myself to Kingdom Come and then chasing that little picnic with clogged ducts and other miseries related to childbearing don’t exactly all come together to make for a particularly comfortable or pleasurable experience. 

Not to mention — I was _exhausted._

I pulled into the driveway, and yawned again. God, I missed Dick on just a banal, _selfish_ level in times like these. _His_ ass should have been the one driving out to Giant Eagle for diaper wipes (and compresses… oh, and flowers and cupcakes while we’re at it) at eleven friggin’ PM while I sat on ice packs and sprayed pain relief crap all over my nether-regions and massaged my stupid achy boob. I just hoped Mom had gotten Mary to sleep. 

At least the fatigue of new motherhood cured the weeks of insomnia that preceded, I guessed — although I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever manufacture enough energy on my own to undergo the rhythm of daily life. 

_Coffee, Artemis,_ I told myself. _That’s what it’s for. If that’s not enough, I guess there’s always cocaine?_

I snickered a bit, and then abruptly sighed. 

Daily life. 

Visiting Dick every afternoon with religious devotion somehow only got more difficult as time went on in ways I didn’t at all anticipate. It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable visiting him, although some of our friends ended up encountering that issue. Which yes, I got. No matter what kind of shit you’ve seen in your day, witnessing the horrible sight of your buoyant, joyful friend lying suddenly unresponsive and beaten to a slab of ground beef would probably take the cake. 

For me, it was entirely unexpected, the actual manner of difficulty that I encountered myself when I sat down at his bedside to yap at him for a while. What made it so hard was the fact that he was visibly healing, and quickly, too. 

That should have made me happy, right? 

_Please,_ just hear me out. 

So even by the time I’d brought Mary into his room (with hard-bought staff approval) to “meet” him just after we were released, the tresses of his hair were cleaner, if still a little slick and not their usual glossy selves quite yet. His face was noticeably on the mend, the opaque bruising and livery swelling dissipating into a less obstructive mottling of myriad colors, his eye no longer swallowed in ugly folds of tumescent skin. The marks on his arm were fading, too, receding into greenish blots across his pale flesh. The lacerations over his lips had seamed on their own, no longer gummed under surgical glue, instead fused in lines of dark, solid red. 

Basically, he looked a great deal more like himself — just a version now that had endured a confrontation with a city bus or a werewolf. 

It was simultaneously comforting and discouraging, finding him recognizable, _knowing_ him immediately this time as I looked on him. While his face was again _his_ , the features previously hidden now reclaimed — gone now was the barrier, the inability to fully integrate what I saw, and the resultant _distance_ from the whole thing that my failing to recognize him had brought. There was no more denial, I knew, gazing down at him, and I felt the elephantine weight of _acceptance_ that this was very much real as it settled on me like an unseen tank. 

I couldn’t let him, on whatever level, know that, though — so I muscled through the sudden stampede of atomizing emotions, and smiled as I stroked his hair. Dinah, the guard on watch for the day, respectfully backed off with a smile, letting me have some privacy with my boyfriend as I drippily and tearfully recapped the chain of events that led to Mary’s arrival to him. I yammered verbosely about everything from the swiftly accelerated labor and retrospectively humorous birth, to the heartwarming visits from friends and family, to Mary’s measurements and weight. I promised that I didn’t change her name on a last minute whim. Then, I positioned the baby parallel to the length of his arm, just letting her, in some such way, become familiar with her father. 

I could have stayed there all day, if I’d been able to, and I thought I very well might have as I studied the sight of them together, genderbent, generational Cadmus clones of one another, both of them nothing but completely beautiful to me as I looked on. I watched Mary in her tentative, exploratory movements, Dick in his somehow peaceful stasis, for a series of silent, cozy, surprisingly contented moments. It certainly wasn’t the same as witnessing him as he extended those strong, capable arms I knew so well by then to hold his baby lovingly and protectively to his chest, an image that I’d pictured oh, _countless_ times since the very beginning, but this little sight of them was the closest that I would come to that treasured imagining, and I wanted to commit every inch, every second of it indelibly to my memory as it unfolded in its reality before me. I felt, somehow, that maybe he knew she was there. I soaked that moment in as though it were _sunlight._

I visited Dick every day after, even if I was hurting, even if I was exhausted, and I commonly brought Mary with me. Thus far, she was an agreeable baby (although her infrequent cry fests, when set off, were positively awe-inspiring), and that made her somewhat comfortably portable. I just had to be sure she was properly guarded against the pathogens that liked to make their rounds in the ICU. 

Life would only get busier, I knew, when I returned to work at DI and to duty with Young Justice, and on some intrinsic level, I also was well aware they would get even busier still when Dick woke up. Yes, _when,_ not if _._ I didn’t care what M’gann said about his “buried fragmented consciousness.” 

To my shame, I groaned just at the _idea_ of it all and longed to go into prolonged hibernation in preparation for my intensifying schedule as I sat listing behind the wheel of the idling car in the driveway, approximately a nanosecond from getting up close and personal with the dashboard after inadvertently going into said hibernation. 

I resolutely shut off the engine and got out of the Audi with the shopping bag, taking note of Brucely whining and barking audibly from the backyard. Mom must have let him out and then gotten busy with Mary. I reminded myself to let him back in as I walked inside through the front door. I rarely parked in the garage — for some reason, the melancholy sight of Dick’s beloved Tomahawk, resting upright as though waiting for something, never failed to make me tear up like an overemotional sap. Every other reminder I smacked right into on a daily basis, and _that_ was the one that unfailingly did me in. 

Life’s weird. 

I shut the door behind me, and paused, drawing up short and going stock still in the foyer. 

I couldn’t place it, but something was _wrong —_ I could _feel_ it the second I walked through that door. My instincts all but _screamed_ at me to be extremely wary, and the thing about Leaguers is that we all have excellent instincts, honed over the years into borderline ESP. My hair prickled and rose, a shiver of anticipation twisting its way from my gut into my chest, firing my heart. I silently ditched my flip flops, and slowly walked through the foyer, not making any more noise, trying to determine the nature of the _silence_ that shrouded the house. 

I peered into the living room beyond the molded pillars that lined its entryway, and dropped the shopping bag, my body all at once wiring into a furious state of _readiness._

“Hey, baby girl,” my father’s voice jeered from its lit space. 

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I just stood in stark, motionless silence, my nerves thrumming and my muscles stringing up. 

Mary lay sleeping in my father’s arms. _My father was holding my baby._

For his part, he just stood smugly in the center of my goddamn living room, looking as though he’d just won the lottery or learned all the juicy secrets of the universe. I couldn’t even bother with thoughts of how the actual fuck he’d managed to land smack in the middle of my house — the only thoughts I could process were the ones bellowing deafeningly at me to get his disgusting, murdering mitts the hell off my baby. 

My teeth clenched and I vacillated, trying to find an opening, a plan of attack, _anything._ But I was in a pretty awful position to go on the offensive straight-off — it’s never a well-advised idea to jump someone holding a new, wholly vulnerable baby, and that aside, as covered already, I was _not_ in a good way physically to do battle with my oversized, exceptionally fit father. 

I inhaled, and _forced_ calm. 

Small details first — _where was my mother._

I flicked my eyes across the room, and saw that my mom lay on the floor behind my father, just beyond the coffee table, her chair overturned, her limbs splayed. My heart guttered, a sickening, dizzying moment of terror and panic threatening to drag me under, but I fought it off by some surge of divinely gifted strength, and took note of the fact that her back rose and fell. She was alive. If I didn’t faint from the fear a second before, I damn near did dead away from the relief. 

There had apparently been something of a struggle — one lamp was upended, a plant on its side on the floor, the potting soil scattered across the polished wood and the nearby area rug. I noted that Mom had at least landed a hit or two on my dad — his nose was a little inflamed, traced with red under one nostril. If I had to guess, he snuck up on her and nabbed her from the back unawares. Which he _would_ do, the fucking lazy coward — and I knew that, not counting Batman, my mom was the one person he had any sort of misgivings over. Naturally he’d avoid a face-to-face. 

My fists went tight, my nails digging into my palms. 

Clearly, my father wasn’t afraid of _me —_ hence, here he was, holding my baby after attacking my mother in her wheelchair, _gloating_ at me with the most smarmily victorious, self-assured look I’d ever witnessed on even the most diabolical of villains out for world domination. I stood fast, full of insult and fury, staring him down right back. 

My goddamn Young Justice comm was in the kitchen, resting in its accustomed, semi-clandestine spot atop the microwave under the cabinet. I just didn’t anticipate needing it — a _sign_ I was exhausted and getting legit rusty in my time off — and hadn’t brought it with me. I had put my cell phone down on the end table and forgotten to bring that stupid thing to the store with me, too. Where the _fuck_ was my brain anymore? How had I been so secure that everything was so okay outside of Dick lying paralyzed in a coma that I could just forget my communication tools, leave my baby and mother open to attack, and disappear into the night as though I hadn’t a care in the world? 

I hadn’t even brought the goddamn sword in from the Outhouse as I’d intended to — the mantle was bare, empty, bereft of weaponry. The nearest weapons were — you guessed it — in the fucking detached garage with the rest of them. Considering that our bodies were weapons in and of themselves, and I doubt that Dick anticipated what happened to him ever occurring, we kept all armaments out of the house, mindful of the safety of our child. 

Dick was under watch — my mother and I were not. 

Brucely was outside, and the side door to the yard was only a couple of lunges away — but even if I let him in, I knew my dog. He’d just attack my dad with pleas for cuddles. I had to try for the kitchen as soon as I could — but not before I’d figured out how to get my father the hell away from my baby. 

Before I could speak or make a motion to act, my dad broke the impressive silence. 

“Shhh.” 

I jumped a foot. He leered at me. 

“We don’t want to wake up this little bundle of joy,” he went on, gesturing with Mary’s form in his arms. She was unmoving — Christ, for all I knew, he’d suffocated her with the swaddle she was wrapped in. My body went molten, deliquescing into weak shakes, even as every muscle cinched up like so many soldiers at attention. My fists balled tighter, and I felt my center of balance as it unconsciously shifted, preparing to _fight,_ as it had learned to do on autopilot over all the years of training and combat. 

“You give her to me,” I ordered, my voice shaking audibly, the tremor shooting through my arms and roiling wildly in my chest. “Dad. _Give her to me.”_

“She seems happy to me,” Dad said, smirking. “Little girls _love_ their grandpas. And their fathers. Don’t they, baby girl?” 

“Dad,” I said, my desperation, already barely in check, surging forward. “Dad, _please.”_

He mockingly took one retrograde step, causing me to take one closer. 

“You wouldn’t keep a grandpa from holding his new grandbaby, now, would you?” he said. “You know, she’ll _need_ a father figure in her life, after what happened to her daddy — _outside_ of that bipolar uncle of hers and that piece of Atlantean trash I _know_ you named as the godfather. Appropriate — you were fuckin’ him while you were on that submarine, weren’t you? Even when you were with that dumbass from Missouri? That’s what all the rumors said — and in my experience, rumors are actually pretty reliable.” 

“Dad, just _stop,_ ” I snarled. “Why are you even _here?_ There are a million other places you could go with your newfound freedom, better places than Gotham — Hawaii, Tahiti, that clap-addled strip joint around the corner that I’m sure you’d fit _right_ in at — are you just here to try picking at my _scabs_ or something?” I gestured, vibrating visibly. “Give me my baby and _leave.”_

“Or what?” he said, smirking. 

I had learned over the years to keep it together — stay calm, don’t overthink things and thereby default to the worst case scenario as the unavoidable outcome, remain in the moment and guided by reliable instincts. I wasn’t the girl who ignored her instincts in efforts to _prove_ something or _be_ something anymore. But that night, with only one thing to prove — that being that my father would be _terrified_ of me before I was through with him — I _didn’t_ keep it together. No, sir. 

Everything went _red_ as I snapped, completely and all in a blink. 

I sprang toward my dad, even _if_ he held my daughter clutched in his powerful arms, determined to just get her _as far away from him_ as I humanly could — and then leave his body rent and lying in steaming shreds in a pool of his own wasted blood. 

Everything he had done to me, I could stomach it. Everything he had done to my sister, I could swallow it — even _if_ it stuck in my throat, since she damn well didn’t need my help in anything. Everything he had done to my mother, I _choked_ on. 

What he had done to Dick — I couldn’t swallow it. I couldn’t even _choke_ on it. 

And now _this?_ Breaking into my home, hurting my mother — _and hadn’t he already hurt her enough —_ and thieving my sleeping baby from her grandmother’s arms to do God only _knew_ what with her — 

My father deftly blocked my… disappointingly pathetic onslaught, which at the last second I restrained, at once mindful of Mary’s form in his arms, switching my intended jabs to efforts at forcibly taking her from him, as gently as I possibly could. 

The next thing I knew, I was staring at the ceiling, which looped in crazed circles above me, its wooden beams spinning like turbines. 

My father had, before I even knew what hit me, laid me out on my ass. I blinked, dazed a moment, and sat up, a plank of wood shifting from its position over my arm and clattering atop the floor (so much for the chair that came with the mail desk.) I came back to myself in a rush when I heard the baby — she was awake and chuffing a series of startled cries, a sound that relieved and incensed me all at once in spite of the fact that I’d just been chucked across the room like a bag of laundry. I glanced over at her, finding her form deposited on the couch. 

Oh, _hell_ no, I told myself, rising a little unsteadily out of the ruins of the chair like some sort of phoenix. It _wasn’t_ going to happen like this. 

My dad stared me down as my posture stabilized and I assumed a Muay Thai stance. He gave me a crooked grin with one side of his mouth, and jerked his head to the side, popping his neck. 

“Come at me, baby girl,” he goaded in that heckling growl of his, lifting his own fists. “All this — it’s been waitin’ for ya.” 

“Drop dead, you piece of shit,” I hissed (so clever — but I _meant_ it), and _flew_ at him, every motion intended to hurl him _away_ from my daughter and my mother. I was all that stood between them and him — and stand I would. If it left me hurt, if it left me maimed, if it left me crippled and comatose like Dick, if it fucking _killed_ me — _I would stand._

Sportsmaster met me with a grapple that sent my comparatively scant weight skidding backward across the wooden floor in my bare feet, tied to him in a boxer’s clinch, something I didn’t stand a chance at coming out on top of, given Dad outweighed me by well over a hundred pounds. I just had to stay upright, see it through, let the train bash me into something solid that I could find an anchor against. 

It _figured_ he’d jam me up against the instability of the towering bookshelf, the same one that Dick and I intended to anchor and never got around to, a task that I’d completely forgotten about after his attack and Mary’s birth. It was a heavy piece of furniture, dangerous unanchored as it was, and with all of our combined weight and the intense force with which he shoved me into it, the thing slammed into the wall behind, rocked wildly, and finally toppled forward. My dad — and I _swear_ I heard him laugh through the din in my ears — let go of me and leapt backward, and I took the full weight of the heavy bookcase with all of its clattering burden as it fell atop my back, squeezing me out from under it as I attempted to skirt the enormous thing. I twisted, trying to get a hold on it as its descent forced me to my seat. It finally flattened atop my leg as I painfully struggled to wrest my calf from beneath it. 

Peach darted out from where she’d been hiding right about then — behind the plant beside the fallen shelf — and as she went racing past my dad to make a break for her safety zone under the bed upstairs, he reached out with one trained, lightning quick motion, and snatched her up, grasping her in his big, beefy paws, _squeezing_ her when she struggled. 

“Dad — Dad, _don’t —”_ I shrieked, panicked, tears flying into my eyes and over my cheeks. I _fought_ with the shelf, at last dragging my ankle from beneath it and bringing it to the floor with a thud. It left an abraded scrape of blood across my skin. 

He leered over the twisting form of my cat as she issued her soundless meow, a pitiful squeak finally emerging from her efforts, his mouth spreading into a horrific, slasher movie grin. 

“I tought I taw a putty tat…” he taunted, never taking his eyes off me, shaking and squeezing Peach in his huge hands. 

“Dad — goddammit — _let her go_ —” 

He held and jiggled Peach by the scruff of her neck, and then finally pitched the cat away from him. She spun in a horrible, writhing arch to catch the back of the couch, her claws raking the leather, finally landing gracelessly on the wooden floor to skitter pell-mell out of the room. 

Completely, utterly _blind_ now with unthinking, untrammeled rage, I shrilled an incomprehensible lungful of vitriol, hauled up to my feet, and bodily hurled myself with every whit of spirit I possessed at my father. 

I don’t know how long we grappled and fought, except that looking back, it _still_ feels like that brawl went on for a goddamn lifetime. It was all flying sweat and gasping breath, hooked grips and clinches, startling, stupefying blows to every inch of exposed skin (and I had a lot of that, dressed only in running shorts and a tank top), stars dancing madly across my field of vision and eventually the whole of my awareness. All the while, the adrenaline _screamed,_ all the blood that bombed cacophonously in my head blotting out every sight and sound unrelated to my father, all of it throwing my body into high-strung, forceful, bloodthirsty action, every move I executed thrust at him with an atomic, incendiary energy. I was sobbing with rage, my heart driving at a crazed, pistoning beat in my chest, every image in front of me looming a bellowing red under a veil of fury. 

My dad was _laughing._

And no matter how hard I hit him, how many times, how ferociously — he just kept _laughing._

I knew I was in _bad_ shape going into that fight — that knowledge was partly why I threw the whole of myself into it all at once. It had to be all heart from the beginning, and that had to be enough to _end it_ before my stamina fully depleted and what little physical strength I had gave out. 

And there was a _personal_ reason for wanting to let my _spirit_ carry me to leaving my bastard of a father lying in a bloody pile on my living room floor, anyway — he always said anyone who was all brains or all heart was a dead man walking. 

Oh, I’d have _loved_ to prove him wrong, leave him begging for mercy as his brawn was undone by a fighter who, just by circumstance, happened to be all heart and brains at the time. 

I wish I could tell you I bucked the standards and conventions. I wish I could say I girl powered the hell out of my dad and left him swearing he’d never diss the concept of heart in combat again. I wish I could tell you I beat him to pouring remorse over the terrible things that he’d done, to promising reform, to pledging attempted restitution. I wish I could say I did the girls on the team proud, taking out some overlarge, roided out brute like I was Mighty Mouse. 

I can’t. Because I didn’t. 

At some point in the fight, I think when the coffee table got overturned, my arms started going heavy, moving leadenly and sluggishly through the air as I threw progressively weakening punches with mounting desperation. My legs wobbled, barely holding me upright, finally depositing me sideways on my knees when my dad thrust me back. I threw hits at Sportsmaster’s crotch then. Frenzied, last-ditch efforts at gaining the upper hand — whatever it would take. 

He swatted — no, _pimp slapped_ me, damn hard, the force of the blow exploding my lower lip and shocking my jaw. I reeled back, landing hard on the wooden floor, and next thing I knew, he was yanking me up by a handful of my hair. 

“Well, you got heart, baby girl — but I’ve always known that, anyway, and you know _my_ thoughts on that shit,” he growled, sneering, and through the haze of pain and anger I saw that his nose was broken, his eye already going black, his lip swollen, his cheekbone bruised. 

_At least I didn’t leave him unmarked,_ I thought vaguely, _and he looks tired, at least I made him_ work _for this —_

My legs were soaked, and I knew without looking that I was _bleeding_ — bad. I fought him, pulling at his fingers, striking at his chest with my elbow. He caught my arms in one hand, gripping both in his burning, sweaty grasp. I swung out weakly with my bloody legs, and was rewarded by having him thrust me down, pinning me under him. 

“Dead bitch walking,” he hissed, and then gave me a hideous cross between a smirk and a sneer, his signature expression. “Or folding.” 

“God damn you —” I snarled, writhing ineffectually under him, by then sobbing with fury and unbelieving indignation, frantic to get to my screaming daughter, to care for my injured mother. 

I fought even harder when his hand clamped over my nose and mouth, damn near smothering me with his hot, broad palm. 

It occurred to me to stay calm — innately, I knew not to fight too hard, thereby unintentionally spending my limited, depleting oxygen. It would all end faster and so goddamn wrongly if I let that happen. I focused on questing for air through the clamp of his sweaty hand, my voice reeding involuntarily in my throat when I found precious little, and I writhed with more deliberate movements, attempting an out. 

“Listen to you,” Dad was chuckling, his hand closing harder over my face. “Hell, _look_ at you, ya fucking embarrassment. God, you make me look like such a _chump_ — I mean, Christ, baby girl, this was all so easy. _Too_ easy. Just like it was with that idiot piece of shit boyfriend of yours. Not even a second and that motherfucker’s lying there with his guts blown out all over the place, begging me not to let Harley Quinn go after you and that precious hellspawn of yours over there.” 

I resisted, reacting to his words, my lungs burning and jumping as they quested more urgently for air that barely came through my father’s beefy palm. I tore at his hand with my slippery, sweaty, shaking fingers. At some point I didn’t see, he produced a switchblade, the sound of the flat springing from its handle reverberating weirdly throughout the dome of my skull, bouncing against my brain. 

I didn’t know if he was even aware he was nearly suffocating me — but if I resisted before, I fought like _hell_ then, hearing that sound. 

“You wanna hear how Dickface _begged,_ baby girl? You wanna hear how he _pleaded?_ You wanna know that he offered to pay me more than what my big boss was offering if it just meant —” he adopted a singsong voice, “ _I wouldn’t do this!_ Never saw a grown-ass man _cry_ so much, I’ll tell ya, and I’ve seen some _real_ torture in my day — that fuckin’ kid would’ve broken in a second in al Ghul’s place. I’d ask how you could possibly stand such a puss-cake, but _now_ I know.” His hand pressed down even harder. My vision blackened under the worsened oxygen debt. I felt the cold of the knife against my forehead, its sharp edge tracing over my temple. “Oh, _now_ I know.” 

My arms went leaden. Everything had gone into slow motion, my vision funneling at the edges, the blurry darkness swelling in like a tide, until I could barely see through a pin-prick hole in the black. 

Dimly, I could picture Dick as Dad described him, and often had beyond any accord of my own, the imaginings immediately shoved instantly into some recess of my brain any time they dared pop up. _Hearing_ my father as he taunted me with them now, I resolutely shuffled my legs to keep up the fight, even when he chuckled and pressed the knife slowly into the flesh at my temple. I _felt_ my eyelids as they rolled closed, right about the time my damn life passed before them. 

There was a sudden explosion of air in my lungs, a blast that burned and hurt, but was so goddamn _welcome_ that I frantically gulped for more of it, shredding my throat as I tore the air into my chest through my mouth. My dad had released me, although I was hardly what I’d call out of the woods, since his hands had moved now to my shoulders, still pinning me beneath him. My vision slowly unblurred, the edges growing sharper, and the unfolding of time shunted back into the passage of its usual frame rate. I resisted my father with what aggression remained when he, leering, pressed the knife to my throat. 

“You know what this is for,” he said. “You sent that hack Deathstroke my way. He brought your loser boyfriend with him. I wound up in the clink because I figured some ballerina like goddamn fuckface Nightwing couldn’t outdo me — kid needs some weight behind him, you know? But it was my fault thinking he was stupid, too — and that’s not happening again. It ends here, baby girl.” 

Then there was a sudden, deafening chorus of undetermined noise, and my father’s weight abruptly tumbled off of me. Through the ringing din in my ears, I caught the sound of Sportsmaster bellowing and cursing, and what I thought, honest to God, was the sound of _snarling._ Confused, I glanced around, wondering what the actual hell had happened (Beast Boy ridiculously crossed my mind), and then stared, utterly shocked, wondering if I was hallucinating. Gar appearing out of the blue sky like some deus ex machina would have been easier to assimilate than what I actually saw. 

_Brucely —_ my sweet, fat, gentle dog that I’d never even heard _growl_ before, I wouldn’t have known the sound if I hadn’t _seen_ him and connected it to him in that moment — had hooked his teeth into my dad’s arm and was shaking his entire upper body with increasing aggression, holding on with profound determination even as my dad attempted to fight him off. The knife had been lost in the commotion. I might have laughed in astounded triumph if I’d had the breath for it — Brucely, indolent and sweet-natured though he was, was a fucking American Staffordshire bull terrier. There would be _no_ prying his intrinsically powerful jaws from my dad’s arm unless he opted to let him go. 

When I’d pulled in enough air to feel less like I was about to go to the great archery range in the sky and regained my bearings, I saw my mom, very much alert and awake, over by the opened side door. I got up, and even though I swayed on my feet and blood trickled from the wound to my temple, I rushed into the kitchen, retrieved my comm, and set off the distress signal. 

Then, I grabbed the first heavy item that came to hand as I reentered the room — a collection of Edgar Allen Poe stories, a huge, leatherbound edition overturned on the floor where it landed after the bookcase fell. About then, my father lobbed Brucely much as he had Peach, hurling his bulk into the back of the recliner. 

Even as this happened, everything passing on fast-forward, my mother was making impressive work of pelting a salvo of hard-surface items at my father, whatever she could get her hands on, along with a volley of verbal hatred that went back and forth between Vietnamese and English. My dad’s arm hung in dislodged ribbons of flesh, the bone exposed, the blood flowing freely. 

“Christ, Paula, you haven’t changed,” he huffed, ducking a flung missile that shattered against the wall behind him. He gripped his injured arm, apparently less than perturbed by the fact that the thing was in punctures and tatters and pouring blood all over. Even in the moment, his lack of concern neither dismayed nor surprised me — although the wound would trouble him for months after, my father could take it and just plow right through without so much as a blink. He squared his shoulders, and moved as though to charge at my mom. 

I hefted the book to take aim, and Brucely (who was okay, and thank God) positioned himself between my father and my mother now, his bloodied teeth bared, the growl rolling leonine and intimidating from his throat. Dad didn’t stop, but that was enough to decelerate his progress. My mother chose that moment to switch from small time projectiles to real artillery, bodily ripping the mounted shelving unit from the wall to just two-armed _hurl_ it at my dad with all her strength. The _sight_ of her slight, half-immobilized form pulling off that incredible feat stalled my own onslaught as I watched in impressed shock. Dad dodged the sizable projectile, but it barked his shoulder with stellar accuracy. 

I let the book fly then, aiming for his head while he was off his guard. It clobbered him smack in the middle of the temple, sending him sprawling stunningly atop the wooden floor. 

Seeing him fall, my legs mutinied all at once, finally at their wits’ end in premature relief, crumpling underneath me. The area rug rushed up abruptly to meet my face in something of a barking high five. I registered that I’d fallen, and then looked up in time to see my father as he rose, looming, still pouring blood even as blotchy, angry red rose into his face. His shoulders widened. His chest grew. His fists balled, heedless of his decimated forearm. 

_Oh, you mad,_ I thought absurdly, almost speaking the words aloud, and nearly falling into a hysterical bout of overwrought laughter at the sight of my father, in a towering temper because of a fucking _book._

The sound of hypersonic airflow hummed somewhere off in the distance, growing louder by the second. I got to my hands and knees, and gave Sportsmaster a victorious look as his head whipped about at the sound. 

“It’s a bird, it’s a plane,” I jeered, the effect somewhat lost in my weakening voice. 

Without a word, and as though he hadn’t just loomed over me and made it clear shit was _really_ real this time a second before, Sportsmaster turned and sprinted like hell in a mad dash to the foyer just as the foundations of the house began to rattle. 

I froze for the barest second, taken aback at the sight of my father uncharacteristically rabbiting — but it took maybe half a Planck length for me to conclude that of course even my dad would head for the hills at that sound, the sound dreaded by villains and career criminals the universe over. It was entirely practicality — not in any way cowardice. Dad was a survivor, and if that meant turning tail and running, well, he would gladly spin on his heel and skip off into the sunset. Good old relentlessly savvy Batman, if he were unarmed and in Sportsmaster’s position, would likely do the very same thing. 

That aside, Sportsmaster _was_ bleeding like a stuck pig. I suppose it was the combination of that, plus two incredibly pissed off harpies prepped to throw down to protect their cub and the impending arrival of none other than fucking Superman that finally inspired him to cut his losses and book. 

Still, if he by some dark miracle got away — 

“Dad!” I shouted thickly after him, trying to rise and failing, “Dad, you come back — come back — _this doesn’t end here,_ you come back and — _there’ll be blood,_ you son of a bitch —” 

I unsteadily got my feet under me. 

The blood pulsed in my temples, cutting off my field of vision in an instant, and with a sense that my skull instantaneously imploded, I went down with the last impression that I tumbled into a dark void to fall forever after — all the way down the rabbit hole I went. 

******* 

“Shhhh.” 

I nearly went through the roof, jerking, looking disorientedly about as the multicolored planes of whatever room I was in roved wildly around me. 

“Artemis. You _need_ to settle down.” 

My sister’s voice. 

“Where’s Mary —” I hissed, sitting up, finally realizing I was in my own bedroom, lying on my bed. 

“Mary’s fine,” Jade assured me, laying a hand firmly on my arm. “She’s in her crib, sleeping, completely safe. She wasn’t hurt. Honestly, I know what you’re feeling right now, but it’s probably best to let her get some good, undisturbed sleep. You need it, too.” 

I sat up, pushed my sister away when she tried to stop me, and marched in a wavering path out of the room, making my determined way to Mary’s nursery down the hall. Jade fell into step beside me. 

“You shouldn’t be up,” she hissed. “ _God,_ you are the worst patient, you know that?” 

“Is Mom okay?” I asked, ignoring her. My heart thundered in my chest. 

“She’ll be fine, Artemis,” she said. “She just took a clunk to the head. She’s been cleared to sleep, so she’s lying down in her room downstairs.” 

“Cleared?” I asked, relieved that Mom wasn’t injured. 

“Thompkins and Cross both stopped by. You’re in _way_ worse shape than she is, just FYI.” She caught my wrist as we reached Mary’s closed door. “Like I said. You are _not_ supposed to be up. You need to call Jeun ASAP.” 

I pushed her away from me, abruptly furious. 

“Artemis,” she said gently. 

“Jade, _please_ — just leave me alone,” I snapped, tears springing into my eyes. I swiped irritably at them. One eye was tangibly swollen, my nose the same. My lip and temple were bandaged. My head throbbed unbelievably and my throat felt as though someone had jammed a softball into it. My ankle and neck hurt. I couldn’t even _sift_ through the agony in my more questionable areas. My legs shook. 

“Like hell,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms. “I’ve been asked to stay with you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” 

I stood there, hovering a moment, holding my sister’s gaze — uncustomarily warm, concerned, and so full of _love_ that I finally just unraveled on the spot. I let the tears come as they would, and didn’t fight Jade this time when she reached over to catch me in a tight, tight hug. 

All of my determination, my fortitude, everything I’d resolved to do when that desiccated asshole came through my door — and what had happened? He’d just mopped the floor with me like I was a goddamn Squeegee, and then pranced out the door and into the night beyond just because my dog, luckily a fifty-pound pit bull, happened to suddenly up and grow a mean streak that proved impressive enough to buy me enough time to call in the Kryptonian cavalry. I had sworn I’d be ready for him, prepared, amped to throw down — _preordained_ to come out on top. But he’d caught me entirely unawares — and my daughter, my mother, hell, even my _pets_ nearly paid for my carelessness. 

We could say I hadn’t expected him to be released from Belle Reve so soon. We could say it _was_ unanticipatedly quick, his unfairly bought freedom. But the fact was — _I should have prepared for that._

I slammed one infuriated fist against the surface of the wall beside me, unconcerned about waking my sleeping daughter — hearing her wake would be a comfort, anyway. 

Dick was in a coma — sorry, a _persistent vegetative state_. Mom was hurt. _I_ was hurt. My animals were nearly sent to the Rainbow Road. My dog would probably be declared a danger to the neighborhood by the HOA. The living room that Dick and I had lavished weeks on decorating was a shambles, expensive pieces of furniture wrecked and turned to splinters. _Mary had been in_ extremely _real danger._ I struck at Jade now, haplessly ventilating the overpowering inpouring of fury, sobbing so hard I heaved, my breath blooming sharp and fat in my chest. Jade shook her head, and ran one hand up and down my back. 

I paused a moment, guttering in my motions, my sobs hitching in puerile snuffles. Jade hadn’t hugged me like that in a long, long time — not since I was maybe six years old or so. I had _yearned_ for her to hold me in that way, to openly _love_ me like I loved her, for us to _support_ one another in our shared experiences, to be the sisters we were. And _now_ what was I doing? I was _smacking_ at her, for God’s sake. I pulled it together with a monumental effort, and just hugged her back. It took me a moment past that to finally realize that she was crying, too. 

“I was supposed to _protect_ them,” I wept hoarsely. “Mom and Mary. I _swore_ to myself I would. Jade — I swore it — and I _failed —”_

“No, you didn’t,” she snapped harshly. “He’s gone. You beat him — _again._ You and Mom _both_ did. And if your living room is any indicator, you put up a damn good fight and made him _work_ to take you down. Imagine if that asshole had shown up when you were in shape for it. You’re a fucking tigress.” 

I just cried some more, hugging my sister in the upstairs hallway of my house, my beloved house, the house I was no longer sure was safe. 

“That goddamn dickless asshole bastard,” she said forcefully when I finally pulled back, wiping at my eyes. The hall spun like a slow, whirling eggbeater around me. 

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Can you stop the room, please? I’d like to get off now.” 

Jade snorted. “Like I said. You’re not supposed to be up, stupid.” 

I sobered. 

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice low and hard. 

Jade, her dark, expressive eyes at once incineratingly hot beneath her knitted brows, shook her head with a furious, disgusted look. 

“He got away,” she said. “You know how our father is. Damn weasel. Batman tracked the blood to the creek in the woods behind your back fence, but either the colossal prick kept to the water, had anti-recognition devices, _or_ had a scheduled pickup — whatever the case, he didn’t leave any physical evidence behind other than the blood he dribbled down to the creek. Even Superman couldn’t find hide or hair of him.” 

I gritted my teeth, and shook my head. 

“Weasel,” I concurred. “So what’s going to happen from here?” 

“Who knows,” Jade said with a sigh. “After the stunt he just pulled trying to kill you — the crown princess of Gotham and social media’s favorite new mom — and leaving enough DNA evidence at the scene to potentially incriminate him in a court of law, it’s not like he’s going to be able to live in plain sight.” 

“Like _that’ll_ be a hard adjustment for him,” I said in an aggravated cross between a sigh and a growl, the anger bubbling acidically in my gut, a simmering vat of some volatile, toxic compound. 

Abruptly, I recalled something. 

“Oh, God — where’s my cat?” I asked, suddenly frantic. 

“Your cat’s fine,” Jade assured me. “Just shaken up and pissed to high hell. She’s under your bed — and just so you know, I can’t get her Ladyship to come out for anything. I even tried canned tuna. No dice.” 

I sagged in relief, although the anger burned anew. “I’m not going to see her for a month after this.” I sighed, and rubbed at my aching forehead. “Not to mention what happened to the living room… You know how _long_ that took to put together?” 

“Don’t worry about that. Roy, Kaldur, and Conner put your living room back together. As much as they could, anyway. It looks… _almost_ back to normal.” 

“They did?” I asked, softening a little. 

She nodded. “Also — your house is under a twenty-four hour guard now, so no more showering with the blinds up or dates with Smilla with the windows open.” 

I gave her a look, even if the information alleviated me. “What the hell, Jade?” 

She just smirked at my discomfiture. “And the Bat Fam are all out looking for Dad even now.” 

Bolstered by these words, I released a mollified sigh, and finally opened Mary’s door. 

Jade followed me into the nursery, and I drew my daughter’s soft, bundled weight from the flat surface of the mattress in the crib. Tears lent themselves to the ones that still dotted my lashes as I held Mary close to me, feeling her as she squirmed and settled in her swaddle, listening to the sound of her breathing, soaking up her warmth and the tickle of her breath on my cheek. 

She was all right. Thank all things good and holy, she was all right. I held her a little more tightly. 

_The one human being I would unhesitatingly not merely die for, but kill for — without qualm or compunction,_ I remembered thinking after she was first born, and the true feeling and nature of those words came to roost that night as I stood with my daughter clasped in my arms. 

A time to stand, a time to die, a time to kill. 

I would. All of those things. 

Even as the decision I made then and there settled on me cumbrously and slowly, its weight threatening to drag me down into the unknown of some shadowy, whispering netherworld, it seemed I made it all in an instant — because the second I chose my path, it was chosen for good and all. Wholly, and never to be retracted. 

“Jade,” I murmured. 

She just gazed at me, her features muted in the soft lambency of the night light. 

“I don’t… want the others to find Dad,” I stated, looking down at Mary, studying her face. 

Jade crossed her arms, and inclined her head. 

I gazed at my daughter a moment more, then turned my eyes to my sister. 

“ _I_ want to find him,” I growled, my voice low and husky, shaking as I restrained the urge to start shouting. “ _I_ do. And I _will._ I will find him, whatever it takes, whatever I have to do — _I will find him._ And when I do — _I won’t stop until I’ve stuck his head on a goddamn stick.”_

I breathed heavily, my chest heaving, my nostrils flaring in my burgeoning, furious determination. I momentarily forgot all about my bodily discomforts. Mary shifted, and I bobbed my arms up and down, the motion entirely automatic in an effort to soothe her, not once taking my eyes off Jade. 

She was silent a moment, studying me. 

“You mean that?” she asked finally. “Do you _really_ mean that?” 

I stared right at her, my eyes boring into hers. 

“I mean it, Jade,” I stated passionately. “I want him _dead._ Not hurt, not maimed, not crippled — _dead._ Gone for good, burning in Hell, rotting in the fucking Underworld — _dead._ He _cannot_ be allowed to live and go on hurting others. And _I’m_ going to be the one to do it. _I_ am. No one else. I won’t rest — and I won’t _stop_ — until that motherfucker is _gutted_ like the pig he is.” 

There was a resounding, echoing silence in the wake of that proclamation, and I knew that this was it. There would be no going back. I was on this path for good now — it was a one way street, with no return ticket. 

The next time I saw my father, I would become a murderer. An undisputed, cold-blooded killer. This wasn’t Melko — I wasn’t a child lashing out to protect myself from a deranged predator that fully meant to hurt me. No. This was as premeditated and plotted as it was vengeful, remorseless, and hateful. I would _delight_ in the suffering of my victim. I would be everything my father was that I hated, in fact — but I didn’t give a damn. This wasn’t about that. Not even close. 

_You wanna hear how he begged, baby girl? Never saw a grown-ass man cry so much —_

My teeth clenched, and _hard._ Mary, again, shifted in my arms, making a bit of a mewling sound in her sleep. I shushed her. 

Jade was quiet, her arms still folded as she gazed inscrutably at me in Mary’s nursery. 

“All right,” she said, breaking the silence. “I’ll help you.” 

The oddest sensation came over me in that moment as I stood across from Jade — something like relief, vindication, the feeling of an especially heavy burden suddenly shared. I exhaled, my tense, knotted shoulders lightening and relaxing. 

I reached over, shifting Mary’s weight to one arm, and took Jade’s hand. 

“We’re in this together?” I asked. 

“To the end, little sis,” she said. “And we’ll make him _bleed_. We’ll make him _beg._ We’ll make him _wish_ we’d just put him out of his misery before the end, I promise you that much.” Her hand tightened on mine. “Listen, Artemis. It wasn’t my husband he crippled and put in a coma. It wasn’t me he sold to some whackjob so she could slash my throat and tear my baby out of my dead body. It wasn’t my house he broke into. It wasn’t my daughter he tried snatching up.” She paused. “So… You say you’re going to be the one to do it. And okay, _I_ want to be the one to finally _kill_ his ass, God knows I’ve fantasized about it enough — but… Artemis, _you_ need this. More than I do. This is _yours._ ” She smirked. “He’d never believe it from you, anyway.” 

I gave her a grim half-smile, and squeezed her hand. “He’s got another thing coming.” 

She nodded. “And just so you know — this is our _mother_ in you. Not him.” 

I softened to hear her say that. 

“And we’re in this together,” I reiterated, and she nodded. 

“To the end,” she said, “however bitter it might be.” 


	35. 2-14-20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, all! <3
> 
> Ah, the last chapter! <3 I can't believe this behemoth is finished... :-) (Well, at least THIS installment in the series, lol!)
> 
> It's actually been done and beta'ed for a while, so I decided on a whim to just go ahead and drop it and be officially finished. <3 :-) I'll admit, this has been the most frustrating writing experience of my entire life and career, and this is including assignments in college and articles for work. It just ballooned into a lot more than what I anticipated, and was so much more emotionally exhausting than I thought it would be. Phew.
> 
> Hopefully the material in this is tolerably accurate. Evidence in holding is a little inconsistent between departments, and oftentimes with personal items, it's up to the discretion of officers handling the material whether it gets destroyed, held onto, or returned to rightful owners. I might have taken a little creative liberty with it for the sake of the story, but I hope it's not such a stretch it's like "Dafuqs, E, that's not right." XD
> 
> Also, just in case it comes off wrongly! The "not so lovely" visitor Artemis mentions is meant to allude to her father, not to Jason. <3 On rereads I realized it kind of might have sounded like that... Not the case! She is talking about Crock. <3
> 
> Thank you all so much for seeing this enormous monster through to the end, and I hope so very much to see you all for part 3, which is outlined and inbound soon. :-)
> 
> All my love and hugs! <3 Happy reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 35**

_February 14, 2020_

_Dick,_

_Happy Valentine’s Day! Or Singles Awareness Day! Or whatever._

_Yes, I made boxes for the YJ team party, which I just happened to get here from — one for you, one for me. Instead of San-San, I themed them Pazu and Sheeta this time, since Castle in the Sky happens to be your favorite Ghibli. Yes, I made airships out of shoeboxes! I did them last night with Lian at our house since I was babysitting her for Jade and Roy — it was a lot of fun. I’ve brought your box along and will read your cards to you._

_So… I had an unexpected visitor recently that I HAVE to tell you about._

_Before I get into that, I would like to tell you right now that I am SO sorry it’s been so long since I’ve sat down and read you a properly written memory therapy letter. The last few weeks… errrr, MONTHS have been a little packed — just lots going on. Christmas, New Year’s. Things to do, places to go, people to see, that kind of thing. And here I am, writing this sitting by you even as we speak. Don’t be mad!_

_And agh, this isn’t even going to be a proper memory therapy letter. I just have a few things I want to tell you and say and I’d rather write it all out so I don’t forget anything. (Mom brain.)_

_Anyway, it’s not unusual for me to hear knocks on the door these days. I’ve had… oh, holy crap, a LOT of visitors over the last seven months. It’s really not as bad as it sounds — even by my increasingly misanthropic standards. For example, Marjorie’s been around to visit a few times, and that’s always a lot of fun. Ha — one time she and I got a bit tipsy after Mary was asleep and looked through photos of you and talked about the times you’d go hang out in her bar. I’m sure you remember punching that dude who tried to steal her tip jar (TECHNICALLY the night it all began!) and also the time you spent Christmas Night keeping each other company in light of the fact that you both found yourselves on your own._

_Good old Granny Marjorie. She’s the best._

_Other visitors have been… not so lovely. Buuuut we’ll (sorta) get into that later._

_Anyway, so the recent noteworthy visitor was — of ALL people — your BIG boss, Amy, from the BPD._

_She came by with some of your personal stuff that the forensics team finally released, like your wallet, your earbuds, things like that. I guess someone at the BPD assessed and cleared those specific items in record time, determining them not necessary for holding. I invited her in and we had a cup of coffee and she met Mary. It was a surprisingly nice time._

_Although — on the topic of the forensics team, shhhh. To the public, it was an electrical fire, and you were unfortunate enough to be injured in the blaze. :P_

_Anyway, she just came by, and gave me all these little personal items of yours that the team was no longer holding in evidence. Well, apart from this little clutch of objects, she showed me a thumb drive. Amy said they found it in your jeans pocket. It apparently contained some personal documents._

_I was wondering why Forensics didn’t keep it, when she solved the mystery for me._

“ _Artemis, you work for Jack Drake, don’t you?” she asked. “As a translator?”_

_I nodded._

“ _How many languages do you speak?” she asked. “Comfortably?”_

_I counted in my head. “Hmm… Ten? Eh, more like nine, actually. Eight.” I chuckled. “Latin and Aramaic need a little work.”_

_She frowned, and kind of sat in what looked like uncertain or vacillating quiet for a second._

“ _Well, have you studied extraterrestrial linguistics?” she asked._

“ _I have,” I told her, and she looked relieved._

“ _Good — here’s the thing,” Amy went on. “There are some documents on this thumb drive that are in a language entirely unknown to any of us. I’ve outsourced to some linguists, including an extraterrestrial linguist, and no one recognizes this language or symbology. If it IS a language. For all we know, it’s a code — but even the cryptographer at Georgetown we sent the documents to couldn’t crack it, so we’re guessing it’s most undoubtedly a language. Anyway… I’m not going to assume that it’s one you know, but I thought you might be interested in looking into it. Maybe you can turn something up. Your personal investment in this aside, I’ve heard from Jack you can be extremely resourceful.” She paused. “I don’t know. It might tell us something.”_

“ _Oh, trust me, I’m more than happy to take a look at it,” I told her._

_Looking at the documents in question on the USB, I had a feeling it was something bigger — like… something for the League to look into bigger. Not tooting my horn here, but I was right._

_The language was known to the Guardians, and was identified as the the common tongue of the planet Apokolips._

_Dickie — this is next level Bad News Bears. WORST News Bears. Like… this is a threat to not just our beloved blue cosmic marble, but to the whole Milky Way system and the entire freaking universe, pretty much._

_This thing we’ve had going on with the big man goes WAY deeper than we ever thought._

_On one hand, this is scary as all hell. It goes way beyond mutually assured destruction and catastrophic global warming. The planet’s name is phonetically similar to what it essentially means to our world — an apocalypse. We’re all WAY on edge now, looking into it more closely, gaining intel from the Guardians. Maybe it’s nothing to concern ourselves over — the documents only just got shunted off to be translated and evaluated, and for all we know, some dude on Apokolips is swapping recipes with L or something — but we all know that’s REALLY freaking unlikely. A research mission to New Genesis leaves next week. I wish I could go, but it’s not a mission with a set time frame, and I don’t want to be away from Mary or you for too long._

_But… on the other hand, babe, I want you to know your work wasn’t for nothing. That key we’ve been looking for to unlock this whole thing — YOU FOUND IT. At least rest in knowing that much._

_To think — the big man made his incriminating machines disappear, but he never thought to ask his goons to check your pockets in case you backed his documents up, which you totally did. You actual smartypants, you._

_Bottom line — you did good._

_And… really, you’re STILL doing good. Every day that goes by seems to bring improvement, the doctors have all been saying. It hit home for me that you were getting better — REALLY getting better — when you squeezed my hand._

_Okay, so apparently, this first time in question was a wholly involuntary thing. Probably shouldn’t tell you this, since I don’t want to embarrass you or anything, but you’ve had a couple of other involuntary incidents of movement and the like, one of which startled the crap out of me since it involved you shouting out of the clear blue sky. Good LORD. I’ve got scar tissue on my heart after that one. :P_

_Still — you’ve made SO MUCH progress from there, going from involuntary movements to actual responsive ones. You squeezed my hand a second time when I squeezed yours on Christmas Eve, something the doctor on duty said indicated the possibility of a minimally conscious state versus persistent vegetative — which was the best gift I could have asked for, shy of you actually waking up. Which… yes, I really thought you would — that that would be the night, that it would like a Christmas gift from the universe after everything._

_Not the case. And it all kind of caught up with me that night. Dick… I just missed you so much. It wasn’t even July when you started talking about Mary’s first Christmas. You asked if we could take her to get her picture taken with Santa on your birthday, something your mom did with you every year. And as you know, I readily agreed, charmed by the idea as I was. I promise I realized that little tradition, and looking to the left of your bed, you’ll see I framed one of the photos and put it on your nightstand. A birthday present, along with some others I’m holding onto and looking forward to actually giving you._

_Anyway… Christmas Eve I just ended up not bothering to hide how sad I was feeling and how much I missed you, and drank WAY too much Prosecco at Wayne Manor and had to have Alfred drive me, my mom, and Mary home. (Sigh. Embarrassing.) At least Christmas Day went a good deal better — I was a little hungover, and still kind of riding the… heartbreak/disappointment I felt, but I had a good time with my mom, and later with Jade, Lian, and Roy._

_Ha, Mary appreciated Christmas pretty darn well for a then five-month-old — she seemed to know there was something special going on, and was all excited and keyed up the entire day. You know she didn’t take a single nap? She just played hard with all her new stuff and went all in on enjoying the overload of attention she got from everybody. She made up for it all by sleeping for almost fourteen hours Christmas Night (holy wiped out baby, Batman.) If I slept an equivalent amount of time after calling off work on the 26th, I’ll never tell. :P_

_I wish so much that you could have been there. You would have loved seeing her so excited — she was just all smiles. The Christmas spirit was strong with that one._

_Anyway… while I was disappointed on Christmas, I’m not feeling it so much now. You’re reacting somewhat to stimuli, which is an amazing and completely unexpected sign, according to Thompkins. She confirmed not long after Christmas that you’d passed from a persistent vegetative state to a minimally conscious state. There’s not… like… a WHOLE LOT of difference? But there is SOME, and I’ll take it, Dick, and any other straws offered. Sounds pathetic and a little grasping, but like I’ve said from the beginning. I’m not giving up._

_M’gann has said if your consciousness becomes less fragmented (and she’s said that she’s felt improvements over time), there’s hope that she’ll be able to telepathically reach you someday, and if/when that day comes, she’s already promised to link us up. I’m just waiting for that, or for you to wake up completely — whichever. The next time I nick your cheek shaving, I bet you’ll come to, begging me not to turn you into Leatherface’s next victim with that razor (yes, I’ve been keeping you shaved and your hair trimmed. You’re welcome.)_

_Anyway, I think it’s why I really started going all in on these letters for a while. I wanted to keep up such a consistent monologue that it would be easier for you to kind of grab hold of the sound of my voice. Bruce, Jason, Tim, Alfred, our friends and teammates — all of us talk to you in our own ways, but I seem to be the only one writing letters regularly._

_It’s strange. The more progress you make, the more impatient I feel. You’ve passed the halfway mark to twelve months, which is the milestone that Thompkins told us denoted if you hadn’t woken up by then, you probably wouldn’t ever — and I keep waiting for the next sign, NEEDING it to come faster than the last. I won’t give up hope if a year passes and you haven’t woken up, but if I say I won’t be at least a little shaken, yeah… I’d be lying._

_(But I still won’t give up. I’m stubborn AF — and you’re seeing just how mulish I can be.) :P_

_That thought occurred to me as I went to work yesterday, that it was seven months to the day since everything happened. Officially past the halfway point. I think it occurred to Jason, too, since he showed up unannounced (but not at all unwelcome) at the house._

_So I got home from work at the usual time, went inside, and Jason was sitting on the counter in the kitchen, armed with (not hyperbolizing) FIVE massively stuffed paper grocery bags, just chatting with my mom. I kind of stood there for a second — I mean, gosh, Dick, sometimes it’s STILL hard to equate that adorable, geeky, scrappy book nerd with his heart bigger than Wayne Manor and his head hotter than Mt. Tambora with the Red Hood._

_He didn’t bust out the helmet and utility jacket yesterday to drop in on my mom and Mary (who’s crawling now, can you believe it? Oh, and getting into EVERYTHING, by the way. Little scamp, that one.) Nope, he was in civvies, nothing out of the ordinary, just rocking his usual piercings and jeans and that old Clash shirt of his that you held onto when he was gone (and barely fits him now — must’ve had a date with Tim :P), kind of looking like a bandmate of the Bravery or a bastard son of the Sex Pistols. I really didn’t know why he was there out of the clear blue sky — I mean, it’d been quite a few weeks since I last asked him and/or Tim to babysit, and then I felt guilty for getting distracted with the daily grind (which is especially grindy these days…) and kind of being a deadbeat sorta sis to him. He really deserves better._

_Anyway, so I got situated with Mary and a cup of tea, and my mom headed off to take her nap. Jason and I talked for a little bit, just the how are you, what’s new, haven’t heard from you in a while, Tigress is happy to leave the Red Hood alone so long as he doesn’t y’know kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it, ha ha sort of stuff. When I DID finally get around to asking why he was there, he indicated the bags._

“ _Well,” he said, looking, I kid you not, Dick, 100% sheepish, “you’ve got a lot on your plate. Like… a lot of big life changes. And… I don’t know, you’re lookin’ a little bit like Slenderman in that suit there, all skinny and shit. I figured you could handle having a little convenience thrown your way.”_

_As miffed as I was about the Slenderman comment — I mean, I paid a freaking king’s ransom to have my work suits tailored so I’d be taken seriously at work by outside clients in spite of my presumed status as a supposedly lazy, entitled Millennial, okay? — I was pretty curious by then, too, I can’t lie, so I handed Mary to him (he’s comfortable handling her now — ha, you should have seen him with her after she was first born, what a wuss) and approached the bags. But not after tossing up one of those jokes that you wish you could catch mid-air before they fall on the recipient’s ears: “If the severed heads of all the mafia kingpins in Gotham are in these bags and that’s your idea of making life more convenient for me, I’m so telling your foster dad on you.” I was surprised when he laughed and quoted Gordon Ramsay right after, totally goofing around, completely unperturbed._

_Turns out, he’d cooked a METRIC FUCKTON of meals — and not just the sort of standard We Acknowledge Your Hardship fare of casseroles born of 69c condensed soup. It’s all food I like, that all reheats insanely well, and that Lian will do well with when I watch her for Jade and Roy. ALL of it is comfort food, too. Like if a single nibble of one of those dishes doesn’t contain a week’s allotment of calories for a roided out bodybuilder, well, slap my ass and call me Sally (quoting you.) There was a bag of nothing but baby food. There was even a bag with a bunch of desserts and coffee, for all Jay’s adamantly loyal to tea. And then the final bag, that had other sundries and random necessities. I was so taken aback that I just stared at him with no freaking idea what to say. Even M’gann tapered off bringing me food after a month or two, and when she quit, well, if my mom wasn’t living with Mary and me? The fridge MIGHT have wound up hosting a humble population of two, Mustard and Soy Sauce. (Whoops.) I tried to say thank you, but all that came out of my mouth was WHY._

_(I know. Get it together, Arty, jeez.)_

_He just shrugged, and said, “I look out for my own, Artemis.”_

_Before I could reply, his phone buzzed, and he checked it._

“ _Welp, gotta work,” he said. “See you later.”_

_And with that, he just hopped off the counter, kissed Mary’s cheek and handed her back to me, and made his way to the front door — jauntily, as though he felt fully assured in what he’d done, never mind he’d been kind of bashful all of five seconds before. I was barely able to shout my overdue and extremely necessary thanks before the door shut._

_The contents of those bags, Dick, I have to say, they comforted and touched me every bit as much as they stomped on my head when I’m drowning. That I’m not alone, here, that I’m finding support from every direction, that people are helping me retain some semblance of normalcy in an existence that resembles Klarion’s wet dreams, that’s more than I ever thought possible of my life — especially after Wally disappeared, and definitely after what happened to you (seriously, am I cursed?? I’m the common denominator, here, between the two of you. And I am NOT kidding or being ironic, asking that. …Oh, Lord. #emoArty) But… at the same time… I just don’t do handouts well, especially if it’s something I can take care of on my own. I don’t like to feel indebted to people, and the way I was brought up, accepting those handouts was a surefire ticket to Beatdown Boulevard. The way my dad always put it — “you take it, you steal it, or you beat the hell out of someone for it before you even think about capitalizing on any of that patronizing, do-good charity bullshit, baby girl. You gotta take care of yourself — ain’t nobody gonna do it for ya. Shit doesn’t get handed to you — you need to TAKE it.” So… I don’t always know how to respond to generosity. You of all people know that, and know that well. And generosity from Jason in particular… it once again reminded me that all that’s happened is not only terrible and serious, it’s real._

_It’s real. It’s as real now as it was last week, last month, and now over half a year ago._

_Sometimes I still can’t feel it — that it’s actually real. You know I still wake up sometimes with the sense that everything’s okay, everything’s normal, only reminded it’s not when I find the empty space in bed next to me?_

_But here’s the other thing — I know you, Dick, how you are, the way you think, how you react to things. You’re probably on some level wondering if, while I’m here DEALING and COPING, powerless to stop the careless train known as Life as it just barrels on, I’m remembering to take care of myself, if I’m eating, if I’m sleeping, if I’m getting out of bed and bothering with real clothes in the morning. Well, I promise, between Jason’s five-part care package that’s reminded me of just how hungry I’ve unwittingly let myself get and to fix that like last week, the 1200 thread count bamboo fiber sheets that feel like sleeping all cozy in goose down when I DO get to sleep, the enthralling nature of this suburban yuppie HGTV Dream Home that up until now I’d only ever seen on TV/magazines or walked through as a mere transient, my cushy job, and the unfathomable support system in our YJ family that is always available when I need it and respectful of the times I need space instead… Well, I’m doing WAY better than most would be._

_So… Rest easy, Dick. I’m not 100%, but… I think I’m okay enough._

_To that end… I have to say this now._

_You may, someday, discover some things about me that you might find… I don’t know, a little unsettling or disturbing. Things I’ve done, choices I’ve made, paths I’ve taken. But here’s the rub — they’re unsettling to me, too. I look at my life, and it’s as though it’s become an episode entitled Questionable Content. (Sigh again.)_

_I’m not at all what I’d call proud. I’m not thrilled or excited by the road I’m on. I’m not even validated or rewarded by it. But… babe, I need to see it through. It’s something that I NEED if I’m ever going to stop looking over my shoulder and jumping at shadows. If I’m going to truly live my life again, whatever that life might have in store — I need this._

_I’m not going to ask you to understand. I completely get it if you don’t._

_And listen. The last thing I’ll say about this… is that once this thing I’m working on is done, it’s done. It will be all over. That’s all there is, there isn’t any more. I promise._

_I also promise that no matter what happens, no matter how things turn out, I’ll try to honor the faith I know you have in me. To be the person you’ve always believe in, even if I’ve made an unsavory choice (but God, so necessary, please just believe me when I say that.)_

_I’m tearing up, writing this. Look at me. I thought post-baby hormones were supposed to have worked themselves out by now. (And sigh again.)_

_I’d better end this here. Not only am I getting emotional, but running low on time and writing plus reading out loud can take longer than I think it will. #failboat_

_Love you, stud —_

I halted in reading, a powerful pulse of anticipation flaring through me. 

Of course, Dick had squeezed my hand before, the first time an involuntary movement, the second a weak, semi-responsive press of his fingers, nothing truly definitive. But both filled me with an incomprehensible hope and joy — and cemented my unending belief that he _would_ flout all of his diagnoses and wake up one day. 

This time, though… 

To say I felt hope and joy in the moment I sat reading to him by his bed on that Valentine’s Day wouldn’t even come _close_ to what it actually was I experienced. This excitement was utterly transcendent — I all but floated out of my chair, one hand holding the letter I had just penned to him, the other clasping his. 

Dick was holding my hand. _He was holding my hand._

He didn’t squeeze, he didn’t press, he didn’t twitch. His hand was _grasping_ mine — his grip closed around my fingers with deliberate pressure. 

I stared, baited, watching him breathlessly, my heart rapping into a thunderous, celebratory overture when I saw his eyelids fluttering, his breathing patterns shifting. He was no longer vented, rigged instead to a biPAP, since he could breathe on his own with assistance to his weak lungs, and the asphyxiation risk had lowered significantly enough that Thompkins had removed the oropharyngeal airway device (or the little doodad thing that kept his tongue from lapsing into his throat and choking him, in more comfortable layman’s speak.) 

That evening, as I sat watching him with arrested breath, he clearly struggled against the intrusive rhythm of the biPAP machine, his chest arrhythmically bouncing under the material of his hospital gown. 

“Dick?” I said, my voice undulating with hesitation and excitement. I was uncertain as to what all of this actually meant — was it a fluke, some weird incident of muscle spasms, or the unthinkable worst case scenario of a death rattle? Or was it — and here all my hairs went up and I leaned so far out of my chair I nearly fell on my face — what I’d waited and prayed and hoped for with every atom of my being over the endless stretch of the seven months preceding? 

Even in my uncertainty, the flash of hope strobed inside me, brightening the lights in the room into an overpowering glare as I focused unblinking on Dick. 

His head shifted, his face turning into the pillow beneath him. His brows knitted, and then I felt my heart and spirit _leap_ into flight and a huge, stupid smile cross my face, threatening to split my features in two. Tears rose in my eyes, falling unheeded onto my cheeks. 

His eyes opened — my God, they _opened,_ I saw his beautiful eyes for the first time in _seven months and one day —_ and then they shifted, an uncertain frown crossing his features. My breath burst from my lungs as he blinked and squinched his eyes, then fluttered his eyelids. He cast about, his gaze landing with utmost confusion on the window. 

“Dick,” I said, a little more forcefully, squeezing his hand. 

He turned his head. And I thrilled when it was immediately clear, just by how our eyes met, that he _knew_ me. He _recognized_ me. 

He knew his name, he knew my voice, and he knew me. 

“Arty,” he said slowly, heavily, gazing at me with a bewildered but completely cognizant look. He raised a hand, and touched at his eye — the one I knew, with a sickening pang, he was blind in. “God… wh-what the heck happened?” 

His voice was a little spotty, weak and hoarse with long disuse, impeded by the forceful inflow of air from the biPAP, but his hand tightened in mine. Grinning, unable to _stop_ grinning now, even as tears poured passionately down my face and fell from my jawline, I pressed the call button, fumbling in my excitement. I shifted from my chair to the surface of his bed, and threw my arms around him as gently as I could in my unthinking, alleviated joy. 

The tears _really_ came when I felt his arms reach up to encircle me in turn, their hold weak, but there, and voluntary, and knowing, and _his._ I cried still harder, laughing at the same time, when I heard his voice, speaking, asking, the words a little slurred and issued stutteringly here and there, but otherwise, wholly articulate. I couldn’t answer — I could only sob and laugh with utter elation in that moment. I drew back long enough to kiss his forehead, his cheek, and then held him again. He’d be lucky if I ever let him go. 

He was awake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Randoms!
> 
> I have friends who work in the ICU/ER and my dad's board certed in internal medicine, but no one has actually *seen* a person wake up from a coma, and comas are kind of varied and individual, apparently. I just had to have a lot of chats with them over what Dick's case might look like and hazard the best guess I could. <3 Hopefully it was tolerably medically accurate.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for seeing this through. :-) Stay tuned for part 3. :-) Much love! ^_^


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